In Libris Libertas
by Jedi Sapphire
Summary: A disgruntled witch casts an unusual spell on the boys. It's going to take all their guts, ingenuity and badassery to get out of this one.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: **This fic is going to need a whole _lot_ of disclaimers if I start naming the things in it that I don't own individually, so suffice it to say that I own nothing – in most cases not even the plot – and no money is being made off this.

**Author's Note:** This story has been a long, _long _time in the writing. And, in truth, I still haven't finished – but I'm on the last chapter, so I figured I could start posting. Didn't want to keep you guys waiting for the Hellatus-filler. ;-) Also, before you begin, please note that there's a geek warning on the story.

Many thanks to Cheryl, for reading and listening to me geek out, and to SandyDee84, for a wonderful plot bunny.

**Summary:** A disgruntled witch casts an unusual spell on the boys. It's going to take all their guts, ingenuity and badassery to get out of this one.

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><p><strong>In Libris Libertas<strong>

**Prologue**

The witch is occupied with Sam – I cringe as I hear the sound of his head hitting the wall, that _has _to hurt – and she doesn't notice that I'm back on my feet and scrambling for her altar.

I spare a glance in their direction as I look for what Sam told me would be there. It doesn't take me long to find it – a medallion engraved with some freaky circular symbol. Hecate's Wheel, Sam said, and then he gave me one of his geek-boy lectures about chthonic deities and witchcraft at crossroads and some dead Greek dude who was apparently as big a nerd as Sam.

Doesn't take a nerd to know the medallion needs to _go_.

I grab it and throw it on the fire the woman has burning in the hearth. It smells of herbs and the flame is blue, honest-to-God electric _blue_. If anything's going to destroy that Wheel thing it has to be this.

But when the medallion hits the fire, the fire goes out and the medallion just freaking _sits _there twinkling at me like it's freaking _smirking_.

"_Dean!_" Sam yells from somewhere behind me. I can tell from his voice that he's in trouble, and I can tell precisely what kind of trouble – it's that weird, strangled sound that only comes out when something's choking him.

"The damn thing won't burn!" I say, grabbing the medallion. I expect the fireplace to be hot, but the ashes are as cold as though there hasn't been a fire in the grate for days. "Any ideas?"

"Water!"

"What?"

"Water, Dean!" Sam breaks off into a groan and I hear another thud. "Get it wet!"

_Wow. Talk about Judy Garland in blue gingham._

Right, water. There are like a zillion flasks and phials on the altar, one of them has to be water, right? _One _of them –

Damn it! The first three are – well, I don't know what they are and given how they smell I'm pretty sure I don't want to know. But they're not water.

And _now _the witch has realized what I'm doing. It's bad because she tries to stop me, but _good_ because it means her attention's off Sam. She dives for me, and I get out of the way, hit the ground hard and roll towards the window and then I'm on my feet –

And oh, thank God, it's raining.

This witch doesn't melt. Which is good, because after the miserable day we've had, cleaning used-to-be-human goo off the floor isn't top of my list of things to do. The medallion melts as though the rain is pure acid, and then there's a flash of green light – damn it, that can't be good – and Sam and the woman and I are staring at each other in a suddenly silent room.

She laughs, a hard, cold laugh, and I have a sense of foreboding. It isn't over. The woman's done _something_ –

She bolts for the door, and I pull out my gun, but Sam chooses that moment to collapse to his knees and suddenly I have more important thing to do than chase crazy bitches.

I haul Sam to his feet, grunting under the weight of all that muscle.

"Seriously, dude, _enough_ with the bodybuilding or next time you get hurt I'm going to have to leave you until they can bring in a bulldozer. No wonder our mileage is getting worse – my baby has to haul your heavy ass around." There's no comeback, and _now _I'm worried. "OK, come on, Samantha. Let's get you back to the motel."

It's a long drive back in the pouring rain, made longer by Sam's gasps and flinches every time we hit a pothole. To make matters worse, I can't shake the feeling that we're not through with the witch yet.

I sneak a glance at Sam. He hit his head pretty hard a couple of times – I _heard_ the _thunk _each time – and hard-headed as the kid is, nobody takes that much of a beating without a concussion to show for it. His pupils are blown and we've already had to stop twice, once so he could throw up and once so he could dry-heave miserably while his stomach tried to find something to reject.

Other than the concussion he doesn't seem seriously injured, and I suppose that's something to be grateful for. I banged up my shoulder pretty bad – not dislocated or broken, but there's going to be one hell of a bruise – and it wouldn't have been fun for either of us if I'd had to stitch Sam up one-handed.

"Almost there, Sam," I say. I've been saying it for the past twenty minutes. It seems to keep him calm.

"_Dean_," Sam says. That's pretty much all he's said since his collapse in the witch's hideout. Just 'Dean' with different inflections depending on whether he means, "Yes, Dean," or, "No, Dean," or, "I can walk, Dean," or, "Stop being such a _jerk_, Dean!"

"Yeah, OK. Just another mile."

This time it's true: I just saw the sign. Fortunately we got ourselves a room before we went after the witch, so all I have to do is pull into the parking lot and get my concussed brother indoors without either of us getting too wet.

Oh, yeah. This is going to be fun.

Sam seems to be improving, so I decide to hold off on the 911 call. He managed a shower himself – even threatened to impale me on the curtain rod if I tried to help him – and he ate half the salad I got him from the diner next door. I was expecting him to eat one lettuce leaf and then start bitching, so it was a pleasant surprise.

Now he's tucked in bed, a little loopy but otherwise OK.

"Sleep if you want, kiddo," I tell him. "I'll wake you up in the morning."

"I'm not sleepy."

"Try."

Sam scowls at me, but he shuts his eyes obediently.

I hold my breath and count –

_Five…_

– because this is _Sam _–

_Four…_

– poster-boy for insomnia even on his _good _days –

_Three…_

– and there's just no way we're getting off this lightly –

_Two…_

– because the universe –

_One…_

– isn't ever going to be that nice to us.

_Zero._

"I can't sleep."

_Yahtzee._

"You tried for about a quarter of a minute, Sam."

"I can't sleep."

He sounds like he's _eight_, and I groan. I could've had the brother who got into fights in the schoolyard or the brother who got busted for dealing or the brother who wound up in Juvie Court, but _no_, I got the freaking insomniac BFG –

Who's looking at me like he thinks I'm the answer to all his problems.

_One day, Sam, you're going to make those eyes and it's not going to work. Really._

But not today. Because, you know, the kid's already been thrown around by a witch and he's concussed and confused and I don't want to confuse him more by holding out against the eyes now. But this is the _last_ time – tomorrow on, Dean Winchester doesn't fall for puppy-dog eyes. Ever.

"Fine," I grumble. "I'll read to you."

Sam cocks his head. "Dean, are you OK?"

Yup, little brothers are a pain. They pull the _eyes_ knowing fully well that you'll cave, and when you _do _cave they get cute about it. _Yeesh. _

"Shut up, Sam." I get up, go to his bag, open it, grab the first thing I see that's made of paper, and stalk to his bed. I pull the chair up close, settle down, and look at the book. "_Lord of the Rings_? Seriously, Sam? Can you _get _any geekier?"

Sam looks puzzled. "Really? It's a war epic. I'd've thought you'd like it."

"Dude." I shake my head. "I have to admit, that Elf-chick in the movie _was _hot, but… OK, that's it, no talking. Lie down, shut your eyes, and if you haven't forgotten this tomorrow morning then I'll beat the memory out of you with a crowbar. We clear?"

"Yes, Dean," Sam says, and I have a feeling he's going to remember it tomorrow morning just to call my bluff. Damn kid.

I open a page at random.

"_Frodo woke and found himself lying in bed…_"

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><p>What did you think? Good? Bad? Already sick of the story? Please review!<p> 


	2. Beyond the Sun, Beyond the Moon

**Author's Note: **I haven't had time to reply to the reviews to the Prologue yet… And I have to go out of town for the weekend and I've not even _started _packing. *sighs* Thank you very, very much for the reviews and comments, I really appreciate all of them and I promise to reply as soon as I can.

In the meantime, here's Chapter 1. ;-)

Many thanks to Cheryl and to SandyDee84. You know why.

Thank-you to my wonderful reviewers: hotshow, Moydra, Kailene, Eavis, doyleshuny, sammynanci, jiffers, tiffaroolou, StarKid McFly, BerrySPNFMA, twomom, BranchSuper, criminally charmed, Souless666, SandyDee84, Whateva876, MysteryMadchen, SPN Mum, Dadaiiro, ArmedWithMyComputer, giacinta, Jane88, Shakari, CeCe Away and nupinoop296.

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><p><strong>Chapter I: Beyond the Sun, Beyond the Moon<strong>

I'm comfortable.

For a few minutes I let myself float in nothing. I have a vague feeling I'm still dreaming: the bed is softer than I remember, softer than any motel bed I've ever slept in, and the blanket is thick and warm and it smells like fresh laundry.

This is bliss. The last thing I remember is –

_Damn it._

I sit straight up. The last thing I remember is reading to Sam until he fell asleep – which didn't take long – and then dozing off myself instead of staying awake to keep an eye on him and make sure he wasn't going to start running a fever.

_Damn it. Damn it._

And that's when I get a load of where I am.

The room is big – and I don't mean two-bedrooms-knocked-into-one big, I mean Bobby's whole freaking _house_ could fit in it. With space left over for a swimming pool.

And I'm alone in it.

_Damn it._

"Sam!"

My voice actually _echoes_ in the room.

And there's no answer.

Right. Step one, find Sam.

I get out of bed, and that's when I realize what I'm wearing. It's a shirt made of something that's rough and scratchy and seems to be poking me freaking _everywhere_ and –

God, I'm actually wearing some kind of weird leather pants.

And there's a pair of knee-high leather boots sitting under a chair a few feet away.

_What the hell?_

I don't want to walk around this place barefoot, so I put on the boots and go out.

I'm in a corridor, about twenty feet high and ten feet wide. And the whole thing seems to be made of white marble. It's open on one side – balcony, then, not corridor – and there's a view of trees and waterfalls and other crap that belongs on a picture postcard.

Enough. The view isn't getting me anywhere.

"_Sammy!_" I yell, not knowing if I'm going to disturb someone in Cinderella-land and not particularly caring. There's no answer and I try again. "SAM!"

There are footsteps behind me and I turn –

And there's nobody.

For a moment I gape stupidly, then I hear, "Can I help you, sir?" coming from somewhere about eight feet below where Sam's head should be.

I look down, and there's a… small person. Wide brown eyes, shock of curly hair – but definitely not Sam.

"Um," I say. How do you ask a dude if he's a leprechaun or just abnormally short without being offensive? Finally I settle for, "You are…"

"Sam, sir. Samwise Gamgee."

And the pieces fall into place.

_Oh, God._

_Oh, God, no._

"Can I help you?" he repeats, and I find my tongue.

"I'm looking for my brother."

Because even now, even when either I've gone crazy or the world has, that's the constant, the thing I have to remember. Find Sam.

"Are you and your brother the Rangers who came in last night? Lord Elrond had him taken to the Houses of Healing."

"_Christo_," I say, because I can't help it. Dude just told me the Lord Elrond had my brother taken to the Houses of Healing. This is too weird even for _us_.

"Christo?" he repeats, puzzled. "Is that his name?"

"_No!_ God, no!" I have a horrible mental vision of Sam waking up in some strange room to find everyone addressing him as Christo. He'll probably think people are trying to de-demon him and freak the hell out. "Can you show me where he is?"

The little guy nods. "Master Frodo's there, too. I was going to sit with him – he just woke up today."

This isn't happening. Please let this not be happening.

I follow _this _Sam down the corridor. It's empty, like _eerily _empty, and I have a feeling that even if there are Elf chicks in this Houses of Healing place they're not going to want to get cosy in the broom closet.

Do they have broom closets here? Do they even have _brooms_? Sam's the only one geeky enough to have read the book, but the movies always gave me the impression that Elves and everything connected with them just stayed clean by magic.

"What's it like?" the Sam-Hobbit (you know, between this Sam and my Sam there's enough material for two normal-sized guys) asks.

"What?"

"Being a Ranger, of course."

"Oh." I rack my brains. _Where the hell is the geek when you need him? _Rangers are those dudes like Aragorn, right? Rugged, masculine, riding around putting swords through evil things. I can go with that. "Hard, you know. But it's worth it. Making the world a safer place, right?"

He nods, looking awestruck, and fortunately he doesn't say anything else.

A few turns down mile-long corridors and we're in a place that smells of – herbs. I guess this is what hospitals smelled like before antiseptic was invented. I have to say it's an improvement.

There's a dude there, leaning against one of the doorframes. He's dressed just like I am, but he's wearing the clothes like he's _used_ to them, like the leather isn't making sweat trickle uncomfortably down his legs and the shirt isn't scratching and poking and making him itch. _He_ looks ruggedly masculine, and I know _I _look like an idiot in a play.

This is _bloody _unfair.

He looks up when we come, smiles at Samwise Gamgee, shoots me a politely questioning glance.

"Mr. Strider!" the Hobbit says. "He wants to see his brother – the Ranger they brought in last night."

"Oh, of course." He straightens up and _up_, and he's _tall_. He's tall enough to make _Sam _seem short. "Thank you, Master Samwise."

Hobbit-Sam nods and disappears down the corridor, and I'm standing alone with this _Strider_. He looks me up and down, lips quirking in a smirk that I _so _don't like, and opens his mouth.

Gibberish comes out.

"Dude!" I protest.

He stops and looks at me in bewilderment. "Dude?"

Oh, bloody _brilliant_. Strider can speak some pretend-language that sounds like I couldn't even pronounce most of the words in it, and he has trouble with "dude"?

"Do you know where my brother is?"

He gives me a weird look, like he thinks I'm dense or something, but he nods and points at a door a little way down.

"Thank you," I say, because I don't want to offend him, the guy might turn out to be someone important.

And then everything else is forgotten because my little brother is on the other side of that door.

* * *

><p>Sam's sitting up in bed being fussed over by a girl – looks like one of those Elf chicks – who's trying to make him drink something that smells like fish juice. I can smell all the way over here, and this is another one of those rooms the size of Olympic stadiums and Sam's bed is all the way across it. What gets me – what grabs at my gut and ties it up in freaking <em>knots – is the way Sam looks, wide-eyed and terrified.<em>

But despite the automatic _Protect Sammy_ that that look sets firing in my brain, I'm kind of gratified. If Sam had fallen asleep with me reading to him and woken up in a strange room with strange pointy-eared people and a concussion and no big brother and _hadn't_ freaked out, I would've been seriously offended.

Just like I would've been seriously offended if Sam had taken the fish juice from _anyone _but me without needing to be force-fed.

I clear my throat.

They both turn to look at me. The Elf girl raises one eyebrow in that supercilious way obscenely rich women and pagan goddesses have. She's hot – _beyond _hot – and I'm stuck gaping at her for a moment. If Sam hadn't been there I might've made a move on her, pagan goddess or not – and probably gotten knocked out for my trouble – but Sam _is _there and right now that takes priority.

Sam looks so relieved that I almost – _almost_ – run across the room and hug the crap out of him.

Wait, wasn't _Lord of the Rings _full of manly embraces? So maybe I should do it. Just to stay in character, you know, not because I'm happy he's OK or anything. For all I care he could be in the dungeons getting eaten by whatever freaky monsters they have in this freaky reality.

I suddenly feel like I've been sucker-punched and _God _it's pathetic that I can't even _think _something like that without my head filling with panic and _Sammy _and _No! _

Right, lesson learnt. Don't think _Sam_, _eaten _and _monster _in the same sentence again. _Ever. _Not even for a freaking joke because it's _not freaking funny _and the thought makes it hard to breathe and I'm damned if I'm going to hyperventilate and faint like a girl.

Where was I? Yeah, I don't want to seem conspicuous or anything. Pansy place like this, I'm sure they expect manly embracing. I bet they go around doing it all the time.

And now I'm by the bed – _I didn't run, damn it!_ – and I don't realize just how worried I was until I feel my arms around his shoulders and smell that girly shampoo he uses and hear myself say, "Don't you dare disappear on me again, you little bitch! I swear, next time you do this…"

The she-Elf clears her throat. I look at her. She meets my eyes and then holds out the cup of fish juice meaningfully.

"Does he really have to drink that?" I ask. If it were just a _little _less foul then I might actually enjoy forcing Sam to down it, but this close the smell is turning my stomach and I can't help feeling sorry for the kid.

"It will help with the concussion," she says, and her voice is silvery. Actually _silvery_, like little bells. "It is not necessary, but if he drinks it he can get up. Lord Elrond's orders."

Huh. So apparently Elves _do _speak something other than gibberish.

"I'll make sure he takes it." I take the cup from her. "Um… thanks."

She smiles, nods, and slips out a side door I hadn't noticed was there.

I hand the cup to Sam. He looks up at me miserably, eyes as big and pleading as he can make them and if it weren't a question of his health I would've given in by now, even if that had meant drinking it myself to keep the Elf from finding out.

"Look, drink it, and then I'll explain. We need to get out of here."

"Where are we?"

"Drink it." Sam holds the cup to his lip, sniffs, looks revolted, and takes a tentative sip. He brightens right away. "Tastes better than it smells?" I tease.

"Dude, this is heaven in a cup." The rest goes down without protest and then he looks back up at me. "What's going on, Dean?"

I sit on the edge of the bed, wondering how to say this without sounding insane. Then again, this is _us_, so maybe I should just say it. "You remember the book I was reading to you last night?"

_Wow. And here I was ready to strand him in the middle of the Mojave Desert if he didn't forget it._

"_Lord of the Rings?_ Yeah. Why?"

I just look at him. He's a smart kid. He'll figure it out.

It takes a few moments, but I can see the instant when comprehension dawns. His eyes go even wider and his mouth falls open and he's staring at me like he's waiting for me to take it back.

I wish I could.

"You'll catch flies," I tell him. Sam shuts his mouth, but his eyes are just as wide. "Come on, we'll find a way out. Let's go take a look around. Didn't want to go without you, I figured if anyone would know their way around this place it would be you."

"Where are we?"

"I thought you got it. We're in _Lord of the Rings_, Sam."

"I know, but _where_? Which city?"

"How does it matter which city? And how do you even knowthe names of imaginary cities?"

"It matters," Sam says, and now he sounds a lot more like the geek I know. "If it's Minas Tirith or even Edoras, there's a good chance they'll have a library with books we can actually _read_ and hopefully figure out a way out of here. If we're somewhere else…"

I shake my head, trying not to think about that.

"C'mon, get up and let's blow this joint. You decent?" Sam flushes, peeks at himself under the covers, and nods. "Good." I gesture at the corner, where a pair of boots just like mine is sitting, along with what looks like a worn backpack. "Let's go."

While Sam's getting the boots on, I go through the pack. It's got a couple of cloaks that look like they belong on a Halloween costume, some pouches of herbs that actually smell kind of nice, and a wicked-looking dagger.

"Rangers?" Sam asks.

"Huh?"

"Are we supposed to be Rangers?"

"You got that from this?" I demand, holding up the dagger. "You're more of a geek than I thought."

"From the _clothes_, Dean."

"Oh. Yeah."

"Have you spoken to anyone?"

"Met that little Hobbit dude. Samwise."

Sam shakes his head. "I can't believe you just said that. You saw an actual _Hobbit_?"

"Let's not get carried away, Sammy. _You _were being fed 'heaven in a cup' by a hot Elf chick. That beats talking to a Hobbit any day."

"Are you sure she was an Elf?"

"Pointy ears."

"Rivendell." Sam makes a face. "We're in Rivendell. I don't suppose you could just have told me that when I asked."

"Sam, you're just lucky that once this is over I'm going to forget that you could work out which imaginary place we were in without leaving this freaking _room_. I can't believe we're related."

"I can't believe you didn't think of asking the Hobbit." With a sudden grin, he asks, "So what was it like to meet someone shorter than you, Dean?"

"Shut up, Sam."

"If you ask nicely, maybe they'll make you an honorary Hobbit."

"_Sam._"

"You'd get about eight meals a day _and _you wouldn't look short. It would be perfect for you."

"Sammy, I swear…"

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><p>What did you think? Good? Bad? Please review!<p> 


	3. Through Shadows to the Edge of Night

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

Thanks to my reviewers: fledglingfeathers, winchesterunited, BerrySPNFMA, Whateva876, Katy M VT, BranchSuper, sammynanci, d767468, criminally charmed, Tendencia, tiffaroolou, StarKid McFly, Jane88, SandyDee84, SPN Mum, giacinta, Eavis, Hunnique, nupinoop296 and hotshow.

And loads of gratitude to Cheryl and SandyDee84!

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><p><strong>Chapter II: Through Shadows to the Edge of Night<strong>

Seriously, what do these freaking Elves do for fun?

No women.

No beer.

In fact, no alcohol of any kind other than wine and some ale that had me choking at the first sip. Sam smirked and patted my back and told everyone in a ten-foot radius that I'd never been able to hold my liquor.

I'm going to kill him as soon as we're home.

We're sitting now chatting with a gang of the rugged masculine types. Well, _Sam's_ chatting with them, talking like he's lived here all his life. Eriador and Mirkwood and Orcs and – giant spiders? _Seriously_, Sam?

My brother doing hunter talk, lying with the best of them. Never thought I'd see the day.

The men beat it after a while and I ask him, "Get anything?"

"Sort of," Sam says. "The Council of Elrond is tomorrow."

"English, Sam."

"It means everyone is on edge because of the Ring. We can't be caught sneaking around this place. Not at a time like this. We're strangers, nobody knows us, we don't have a believable cover story, and this is something you can't get us out of by making nice with the Sheriff's secretary. If they decide we're spies for Sauron then we're never getting out of here."

"Oh, _God_," I groan. "Yesterday I had a life that actually seems normal in comparison with this madness, and today I'm a spy for a giant _eye_? _This _is what I get for trying to get you to sleep peacefully? See if I ever read to you again!"

"I didn't ask you to!" Sam snaps.

"Yeah, well if you weren't such a whiny brat maybe I wouldn't have had to!"

Sam opens his mouth, but he seems to think for a moment, stops and closes it again. "It's the Ring."

"The _what _now?"

"The One Ring. It's here in Rivendell. That's what's getting us riled up."

"Oh, come on! What next, the Tooth Fairy?" Sam glares at me, and I sigh. It sounds ridiculous, but I _did _just call Sam a whiny brat, which I don't think I've done since I was eight, so maybe he has a point. "Fine. What do we do?"

"I found out where the library is."

"Won't all the books here be in their Elf-language?"

"They probably are, but Tolkien has Men visiting Rivendell sometimes. There's a chance there'll be _something _we can read that'll tell us what's going on and how to get back home. I'd rather check it out before trying to explain this to someone here." He looks at me. "Do you think it was the witch?"

I hadn't thought of it, honestly, too busy being freaked out by all the Elves, but now that he's said it…

_Bitch. _

"So what do we do?" I ask.

"We go to the library and do some research."

"_Now?_"

"What, you have plans that can't be postponed? Yes, _now_."

"Can it wait a half-hour?"

"_Why?_"

"One of those Elf-dudes offered to spar with me – and I have to say, Sammy, how many chances am I going to get to whip an Elf's ass?"

"You're _joking_, right?"

"Why would I joke?"

"In case you haven't noticed, these aren't Hans Christian Andersen Elves, Dean! They're strong and fast and hundreds of years old at _least_. You and I could face off together against one of them and he'd wipe the floor with us. Blindfolded."

"I've lost fights before. How bad can it be?"

Sam sighs. "Fine. You go find out how bad it can be. I'm going to the library. You can join me there when you're done. _If _you can still walk. Just try not to say something stupid and get us thrown to a Balrog."

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><p>Trust Sam to be right.<p>

I hit the dust for the tenth time and the Elf hasn't even broken a sweat. It's _bloody _unfair.

For a moment I wonder if this was what Sam felt like when Dad made him spar with me when we were kids. Before he hit his growth spurt I was like a foot and a half taller than him, his arms and legs were long and uncoordinated, he had no muscle mass to speak of, and so he nearly always wound up on his ass.

I get up, every muscle protesting, and face the Elf again. I am _so _going to get him this time.

He tilts his head a little and looks at me. It's a mixture of understanding and sympathy and I hate it. The guy's so slender I'm surprised the _wind _isn't blowing him away. He has golden hair that's down to his shoulders and somehow not one strand has been mussed up by twenty minutes of sparring. He looks like a girl's dress-up doll and he's looking at me like he's _sorry _for me.

Bloody _Elves_!

I lunge, he sidesteps – _damn_ it, it should be against the rules to move too fast for the human eye to follow – and this makes _no _freaking sense. I've fought monsters that were supernaturally fast. Why is this Elf so hard to beat?

_Because he's a lot smarter than a monster_, some corner of my mind answers. _Because he's a lot older than any ghost you've ever met. Because he probably spent about a thousand years learning how to fight._

And before I know it I'm tasting dust again. This time I taste blood with it.

I get back up. I'm not exactly nineteen anymore and _everything_ hurts, and all I really want is to end this and go to Sammy and wait for him to realize that my ribs are bruised. I'll have to listen to a hundred variants on, "I told you so," but while he's bitching he'll strap them for me. It's unbelievable that someone as big as Sam can be so _gentle_, but –

But I am _not _giving up.

Looks like the Elf is sick of flinging me around though, because he shakes his head. "That is enough."

He sounds strange (just like he did when he asked me if I wanted to spar with him). Like he isn't used to speaking English – or whatever they call it here; Sam said something about 'Westron' and 'Sindarin' and something else that I didn't bother listening to.

Something tells me that I shouldn't get cocky with the Elf, so I just say, "I'm not backing out."

"I know." The Elf nods. "I did not intend to impugn your courage. I am sorry if I gave offence. I admire your spirit. I know few men who would have been this persevering." Yeah, well he probably knows few men who'd put up such a pathetic fight, too. Most of the guys I've seen have been bigger than _Sam_. The Elf apparently guesses what I'm thinking, because he shakes his head. "There is no shame in losing. The only shame is in giving up. You cannot accuse yourself of that."

Thank you, Obi-wan Kenobi. That makes me feel _so _much better.

"Do you want to see one of the Healers?" he asks. "Lord Elrond's Healers have experience with Men."

"No," I tell him. "Thanks. I'm fine. If you could just show me where the library is…"

* * *

><p>"Whipped his ass, did you?"<p>

"Shut up, Sam."

"How many times did you knock him out?"

"_Sam_," I growl.

There must've been something in my voice, because the amusement drains out of Sam's face, replaced by that familiar look of concern. "You OK, Dean?"

"I just got thrown to the ground a dozen times in twenty-five minutes, Sam. I'm just _peachy_."

"Let me see."

"_Dude! _You are not groping me in the middle of the library."

"Fine. Let's go to your room. _Up _those three flights of stairs. It's a pity elevators and wheelchairs haven't been invented yet."

"I hate you."

"I know."

"Can we at least not do this in full view of the door?"

* * *

><p>"Satisfied?" I hiss, not letting on that Sam rubbing my ribs actually made them feel better. "Going to stop groping me now?"<p>

"Don't be a jerk. I _tried_ to stop you."

"Yeah, whatever. Did you find anything?"

"Nothing yet," Sam says mournfully. "I've been looking. There are a _few _I can read – sort of – but nothing at all about this curse and how to break it. And I guess I shouldn't have expected anything… I mean, witches don't exist here, right?"

"Right." I can't help rolling my eyes. "I mean we've got Elves and Dwarves and giant spiders and Orcs and magic rings, but _witches _would be weird."

"You know what I – oh!" Sam breaks off, staring at something behind me.

I turn and see Samwise Gamgee. He's not alone. There are three more of them with him. Two of them look young (as far as I know, and I admit I'm no judge of _Hobbit _ages of all things) and one looks older than the Native American spirit that chased us half a mile through the forest in Montana.

"You found your brother!" Samwise says.

Before I can respond, one of the other young Hobbits pipes up with, "Have you come here for the Council? With Strider? Are you really Rangers too? What are your names?"

I hold my tongue. Let Mr. Try-Not-to-Say-Something-Stupid get us out of this one.

Sam smiles politely. "You must be Master Peregrin Took." God, the geek is even _talking_ like one of them. "We have not come for the Council. We have other business here. My name is Samuel."

"Samuel?" the old one asks, and I notice that although he looks about two hundred years old his eyes are sharp. "That doesn't sound like a Númenorean name."

_Nice going there, geek boy._

"I was named for my mother's father. My mother is not one of the Dúnedain; she was born in a land far to the east of Rhûn."

_Wow. Seriously, nice going, geek boy._

For some reason this seems to excite the guy. He pulls a pen and some scraps of paper out of some fold of his clothes, almost _jumping_ in his excitement, and before I know what's happening Sam and I are sitting across from him answering questions about our mother's far-off land while he scribbles furiously and draws maps. I let Sam do most of the talking.

I hope Sam's not going to send him off on some wild-goose chase in the middle of nowhere. I'm starting to like the little dude.

* * *

><p>"What the <em>hell<em>?" I hiss in Sam's ear.

Sam shrugs. The light's too dim for me to see his face but I just _know_ he's grinning.

Little bitch.

"You're the one who wanted to come here," he points out. "_I _said we could do some more research."

"You should've told me what it would be like. I only wanted to come because Bilbo Baggins promised us exciting war stories. You know how many we got? None. First that blond Elf sang something so depressing that everyone who could understandthe song started crying. Then that other guy sang what Bilbo claimed was a love song and everyone was crying _again _at the end of it, including those Hobbits who I'm betting _couldn't _understand the song. Then _Bilbo _–"

"I get it. You've been paying attention. Very good, Dean."

"Sam, I'm telling you, if I have to listen to one more complaint about how much this place sucks compared to the freaking Elven-home, I'm going to kick someone's freaking ass. And because I won't get far trying to kick Elf ass, that _someone_ is going to be you."

Sam chuckles. "Ready to go?"

"We can go? They're not going to think we're spies of Saruman?"

"We can go, Dean. It's an informal gathering. And they don't know Saruman's a traitor yet."

"Shut up, geek. And if you're sure it's safe to blow the sob-fest, get moving. I need to get back to reality now. Like _now_, before we get drafted into going to that magic volcano of theirs. Even _our _reality is less messed up than this."

Sam laughs some more, but he leads the way back to the library.

It's dark there now but we snag a couple of lanterns that are outside – for that very reason, I'm guessing – and go in, Sam warning me about the danger of fire in a roomful of paper as though I'm some kind of idiot.

We're about an hour into the search when Sam lets out a breath. I know the sound: he's found something and he isn't sure what to make of it.

"Sam?" I go around the bookshelf to him. "What?"

"Look."

Sam holds up a book. It's an old, hardback and leather binding. The writing on the cover is embossed in gold. It's in English but some miserable curly script and I have to squint to figure out what it says.

"_The Odyssey_?" I say, getting it at last. "Bunch of Greek dudes in the days before GPS? Not exactly helpful, Sam."

"Maybe. But it doesn't belong here. This is freaking _Lord of the Rings_, Dean. There's no Greek mythology in this world. There's no Homer and there definitely shouldn't be this book."

"So you think… what? It might _help_ in some way?"

"I read it in school," Sam admits. "I don't remember all of it, but… yeah, it might have something useful. It's got plenty of supernatural stuff going on – the monsters, the gods. Maybe there'll be something we can use." He glances at the cover. "And it's an English translation."

"Almost like it was put here for our benefit."

Sam frowns. "You think it's a trap?"

"Not much we can do about it, is there? We've been at this so long I can probably write a catalogue of the books and this is the only thing we've found with any sort of connection to our world. Let's at least _look_."

"OK." Sam pauses, hefting the book in his hands, and says, "upstairs."

"_Sam_," I protest, because I ache_ everywhere_ from my sparring match with that Elf. I just can't do three flights of stairs right now even with Sam's giant body to lean on.

"It's too dark here, Dean. If something happens and we drop the lanterns…" Sam looks at me and sighs. "Fine. Let's just go outside. There's plenty of moonlight, and since everyone's in the Hall of Fire it should be safe enough."

We leave the lanterns by the door on the way out. Sam gets a hand to my shoulder, and I don't protest because I know he needs the comfort. And… you know… it's kind of nice to have his hand there. It's big and warm –

Right. Focus. Book.

And – _wow_. I've seen moonlight, but I've never seen moonlight like this. And it's got nothing to do with city lights blocking out the moon. Even sitting on the Impala's hood in the middle of nowhere I've never seen moonlight this bright.

"It isn't _real_ moonlight," Sam explains. "Not like our moonlight. It's moonlight the way Tolkien imagined it while he was writing."

We reach a carved bench and I drop to it gratefully, Sam sitting next to me. He squeezes my shoulder for a second before he lets go and opens the book. I lean in closer to read it with him.

"Circe," Sam mutters, flipping pages. "The sorceress… Closest there is to a witch. Maybe the part about Circe will have some answers. Book… Ten, right? Or was it Eleven?"

"Do you really think I know?"

Sam shakes his head, finds a page, and says, "Right… _To the Aeolian Island we attained…_"

The world, and Sam's voice, are drowned out in blindingly bright light.

* * *

><p>What do you think? Good? Bad? Please review!<p> 


	4. Some God Directing Us

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

**Author's Note: **OK, I know a lot of people are disappointed to be leaving Middle-earth so soon… But if it's any consolation, the boys will be (briefly) mistaken for a gay couple in this chapter. Because it's been just _too _long since the antiquing incident and I couldn't resist.

Thanks to hotshow, doyleshuny, Eavis, Jane88, Lampito, BranchSuper, SandyDee84, Whateva876, nupinoop296, criminally charmed, MarzBarz, Tendencia, Souless666, SPN Mum, giacinta, BerrySPNFMA and tiffaroolou for the reviews!

Thanks to Cheryl and SandyDee84. Because.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter III: Some God Directing Us<strong>

The light fades and we're still sitting, the night sky above us and Sam's warmth next to my shoulder.

But everything else is different.

For one thing, we seem to be sitting on something hard – _wood?_ – and it isn't the ground. It's shaking, moving up and down in a way that reminds me uncomfortably of that transatlantic flight we took when it hit an air pocket. It's also darker than the inside of a grave.

"Oh _God_," Sam hisses.

"Sam? What's wrong? Didn't it work?"

"Oh, yeah. It worked all right. Son of a _bitch_! I should've thought of this!"

"Sam?"

"I think we're _in _the Odyssey, Dean."

* * *

><p>"Where are my pants?"<p>

"We don't get pants," Sam says, sounding entirely too amused.

"You mean we have to walk around in these oversized nightshirts and nothing else?"

"They're Greek tunics, Dean, and _yeah_. I get the feeling we're supposed to be soldiers, so when we're on duty we have to wear the tunics. Unless you want to be found out and thrown overboard."

"You'd better not be trying to molest me, Sam."

"Thanks for that tasteful and necessary remark, Dean. Now I'm scarred for life. If it makes you feel better, you can put on one of those cloaks." He gestures at a pile of cloth in a corner. "Now come _on. _Let's go up on deck and see if we can figure out how to get out of this."

"What? _No._ No way, dude. It's bad enough that _you_ get to see me in a girl's nightdress. I'm not letting _other _people… _No._ I'm staying here."

"Dean –"

"_No_, Sam." It isn't so much about the nightdress as it is about the fact that my stomach's jumping up and down with the ship's motion, and I have a feeling it'll be worse upstairs. At least here's there's no sunlight getting in my face and no fishy seawater making me gag. "You go find out whatever the hell you want. I am _not _moving."

"Dean, come on. You can't sit in the hold forever. What's wrong? Are you seasick? It'll make you feel better to be on deck."

"Just get the hell _out_, Sam! I'm fine except for having to hear you bitch at me all the time. Leave me alone!" Sam looks startled at the outburst and I feel instantly guilty for lashing out at him. It's not his fault. "Just go, Sammy. Please."

"OK… I'll be back in a bit."

* * *

><p><em>Stupid boat.<em>

_Stupid boat worse than a freaking plane!_

I stay in the hold as long as I can – which isn't very long before the smell makes me want to bring up the contents of my stomach. Then I make my way up to the deck. It's a fight, because the sea is tossing the boat around worse than any ghost ever could, and I almost land flat on my face – which would be _bloody _embarrassing considering that I'm not wearing pants and this stupid tunic thing comes just to mid-thigh – a dozen times before I'm safely topside.

Nobody seems to notice me – the ones that aren't scurrying around doing things to the sails are lounging and talking. None of them seems bothered by the way the deck is pitching, and for a moment I want to run back down to the hold. At least _there _there's nobody to see me puke my guts out.

I look around for a moment before I spot Sam. He's standing in the stern, chatting with some short curly-haired guy who is _totally_ checking out his legs. And his ass. And all that musculature that the rough linen is doing a poor job of hiding. My brother the genius is prattling like a clueless child, absolutely unaware that the short guy is eyeing him like he's a lollipop.

_What am I going to do with you, Sam?_

I'm about to go over and rescue him, because the last thing we need is _more _complications, but a sudden swell makes my stomach shoot up into my throat and all I can do is run for the nearest railing.

Freaking _boats_.

I'm heaving miserably into the sea, wishing I could just fall into it and drown to be done with the agony, when I feel a hand on my back. My first thought is _Get off me_ but then I realize it's a familiar hand, one that knows exactly where to rub to make me feel better.

"Sammy," I gasp out between retches.

"I've got you." His arm comes around me and I'm drawn into a solid chest. The world seems to straighten, the deck actually feels firmer under my feet, and I let myself soak up the comfort of Sam's presence. Just for a minute. One minute and then I'll move. "You should've told me you were sick, Dean."

"I'm not _sick_," I tell him. "The boat is evil. Probably possessed."

"Sure. Whatever you say."

"Who do they think we are?"

"Members of the crew. They seem to remember us having been here from Day One – someone was telling me about your exploits before the walls of Troy. Apparently you're one mean swordfighter." The hand on my back moves up into my hair. Sam says, "You ready to sit down now?"

"Why? You need to go back to necking with your boyfriend?" Sam stiffens, and I sigh. We _need_ to get off this boat. "I didn't mean that the way it sounded, Sam."

"Yeah, I know." If Sam's mad it doesn't show in his voice. "C'mon."

He pulls me away from the railing. I'm dead sure the heaving deck is going to have me on my ass in a fraction of a second, but Sam's there, taking most of my weight, and somehow he manages to keep his feet and keep me on mine and get me propped against the side with something soft bundled under my head. He sits next to me and I feel another stab of guilt. If it weren't sick and bitchy he could at least be finding out how to get us home.

"You don't have to sit with me, Sam."

"I know I don't have to."

But he doesn't leave. And the next time I need to lean over the railing he's right there, running his fingers through my hair and letting me huddle into his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," I choke, wishing I could find the strength to stand on my own so Sam wouldn't have to waste time holding me up.

"Dean, shut up."

"You should be finding out stuff… What we need to do…"

"Already did that while you were sulking in the hold. I know what the next stop is and I know what we need to do."

"Yeah? What's that?"

"Persuade Hermes to give us some moly."

_Oh, God. This is worse than the spies of Sauron thing._

"You mean the _god _Hermes? You're joking, right?"

"Why would I joke at a time like this?"

"You're right, you have a pathetic sense of humour. Why would that change now? Sam, don't you remember what pagan gods are like? Did the trip here fry your brain?"

"This isn't _real_, Dean. It's a book – it's a translation of a book." He waves a hand at where the short guy he was talking to is now getting up close and personal with someone else. "That man spoke to me in English. Hermes is going to be Homer's Hermes – warped sense of humour but willing to help people. We'll just have to put it to him right."

"And this moly you're going to get from him does _what_,exactly?"

"It makes us immune to Circe."

"Circe? The _sorceress _Circe you were telling me about earlier?"

"Yeah."

"Wasn't she the one who turned the entire crew into _pigs_?"

"Bingo. I knew you paid _some_ attention in high school."

"Sam, are you out of your freaking _mind_?"

"She's a sorceress. Probably the most powerful one around. If anyone can help us, she can."

"Why the hell would she help us? This isn't some witness you can get around with puppy-dog eyes. What if she decides you look better as an actual puppy?"

"Dean –"

"We're in this trouble because of a witch, Sam! We're not going to go marching straight into a sorceress's hidey-hole!"

"We don't exactly have a lot of options, Dean. Or, wait, I suppose we could just blend in with the crew and hang around until they eventually get home. Although you do know that the point of the Odyssey was that it took them freaking _forever_ to get home. There are twenty-four books and we're only in the tenth one. Another fourteen books – I suppose you'll get used to sailing by the end of it."

"I hate you."

Then the boat starts to rock so much that not even grabbing hold of Sam can keep me stable, and I start heaving again. I hope wretchedly that Sammy will stay with me and rub my back.

Sammy does.

* * *

><p>Everyone on the boat probably thinks I'm pathetic but at this point I don't care. It's been a day – an entire freaking <em>day <em>and I don't know if we're _ever_ going to get to this island that Sam is promising me exists.

One _day_. I've been feeling like I have the world's worst case of stomach flu. At first Sam let me throw up, thinking I'd get used to the rolling of the boat eventually, but after the third time he started frowning and muttering about dehydration. He left me alone for a bit and when he came back he had a cup of something he wanted me to drink. The smell made me want to puke even more, but he drank the Elf chick's fish juice so I suppose it's only fair.

I have to admit it's been better since then. I still feel terrible, but I haven't been heaving my guts up, and although I would never admit it to Sam, it's comforting to have him around. Being on a boat sucks, I'm sick, I don't have _pants_, the people are weird and the world is screwed up… but Sam's still Sam.

I'm just managing to drop off to sleep when Sam decides to shake the shoulder I'm using as a pillow.

"_What_, Sam?"

"They sighted land," Sam says, and those have to be the three most beautiful words in the English language. I know my eyes are lighting up, and from the way Sam seems to be having a hard time deciding whether or not to laugh I'm sure I look ridiculous. "I think it's Aeaea – Circe's island. We _should_ be able to talk to her soon."

"So – what? We wait and follow their lead?"

"No," Sam says reluctantly. "That'll take too long. They're going to be hanging out here biting their nails for a couple of days before Odysseus even sends his friends to Circe. It'll be even longer before he goes himself. We don't have that much time. But… We need moly. We need to summon Hermes… And regular summoning rituals won't work because it's Homer. It has to be something the Ancient Greeks used."

"You woke me up to listen to you have a debate with yourself?"

"Dean, I'm serious. We need to do something. We can't _sit _here waiting for things to happen."

I sigh and settle back down against his shoulder. I notice a few of the other guys eyeing us with amusement, and I feel myself flush when I realize what they're thinking. Fortunately Sam's not looking at me; I'd never have been able to live down 'blushing like a girl'.

Sam's utterly oblivious to the stares. He's frowning and muttering, and I can practically _hear_ the wheels turning in his head.

"Think about praying?" I ask.

Sam turns to stare at me. "What?"

"Homer believed in Hermes as a god, right? I mean, actually _believed _in him. So if this is Homer's world, Hermes ought to answer prayers." The ship lurches and I bury my head in Sam's shoulder with a groan. "Don't ever let me get on a boat again, Sammy. Worse than planes. At least plane rides don't _last _this long."

Sam's hand is on my head. "Get some sleep. It'll be a while before they actually get into shallow waters. I'll wake you up when it's time for us to go."

* * *

><p>"<em>Dean.<em>"

I moan and swat at the source of the noise. It's dark and my stomach has finally settled enough to let me sleep peacefully and whatever I'm using as a pillow is nice and warm. I'm not waking up for anything or anyone –

"Dean! Come on, man, wake up. We have to go."

Except Sammy.

I open my eyes. Sam's standing over me, arms crossed, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He's wearing nothing other than his tunic and a pair of sandals and the night air is _cold_. For a moment I wonder where he put his cloak – I _distinctly _remember getting that Eurylochus dude to give me two – and then I realize what it is that's bundled under my head.

"Idiot," I hiss, sitting up and shoving the cloak at him. "You realize that we're screwed if you catch a cold? I'm betting they don't have codeine here!"

"Let's go," is all Sam says, and he hands me a pair of sandals.

They're worse than the boots we had in Elfland. They're worse than having to walk around on a barnacle-covered deck _barefoot_. They're made of what's probably calfskin and they're open in front with laces from knee to toe and _damn it _I am not putting those things on my feet. They're fine for _Sam_. He's a girl anyway. _I _am not wearing _anything_ that'll make me look like that cute motel clerk in Indianapolis.

"Sam," I begin. He cuts in, and I can tell from his voice that he was prepared for the argument.

"We can't get you army boots, Dean. They haven't been invented yet. These are what soldiers and horsemen wore in Ancient Greece and there's a reason for it. The laces are to keep them from falling off your feet, which is what'll happen if you try to run in regular sandals."

"You think we'll have to run?"

"I think we're going to explore an island inhabited by a sorceress who likes to turn men into animals. Do _you _think we'll have to run?"

I get them done up. Freaking _Greeks_, can't have normal shoes like normal people. No, they have to go for sandals with pretty laces that you have to wrestle with for half an hour because they keep slipping down your calves instead of staying uplike you want them to.

I stand and discover Sam holding out –

"What, no shotguns around here?"

"Just _take _the sword, Dean, and try not to stab yourself in the foot."

"I'm Batman. Any thought about how we're going to get to that island of yours?"

"We're going to climb over the side. There's nobody keeping watch on this side of the boat – why would they? After everything they've been through already, people would have to be crazy to try to explore a strange island alone."

"Good thing we're crazy, then… What about Hermes?"

"I think you're right. We have to pray to him… Let's get to shore and see if we can find a path or a trail or _anything_ that might have crossroads."

"_Crossroads?_" I demand. "Sam –"

"No crossroads demons here, Dean," he reminds me. "And we're not doing the ritual. We're going to pray to Hermes. It'll be fine."

We clamber down the side of the boat – Sam has an easier time than I do with those freakishly long arms and legs – and then we're swimming for shore. It's hard going with clothes on, but it's not far and the water's still. In just a few minutes we're on the sand and _God _it feels good to have solid ground under my feet again. I am never getting on another boat. _Ever._

* * *

><p>What did you think? Good? Bad? Please review!<p> 


	5. Behold from Circe's House

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

Thanks to sammynanci, doyleshuny, Eavis, Dodo.123, StarKid McFly, nupinoop296, Whateva876, MarzBarz, SandyDee84, SPN Mum, Tendencia, giacinta and hotshow for the reviews.

And, as always, thanks to Cheryl and SandyDee84.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter IV: Behold from Circe's House<strong>

It doesn't take long to find the trail, and then we get an hour of trekking up some of the most miserable countryside since those woods outside Burkitsville. I have a feeling the plants are going out of their way to trip us up.

I mention that to Sam and he shrugs. "Circe's island, Dean. It's possible. Just be careful."

_Freak._

We finally get to a fork where the trail we're following joins a broader path. It's the closest we're likely to get to a crossroads in this whacked-out place. There's a brightly-coloured marble post exactly at the fork, a square pillar topped by a carving of a head. It looks like it could be an Ancient Greek milestone except…

"Sam," I hiss, nudging him. "Why is there an X-rated pillar in the middle of nowhere?"

Sam's eyes flicker to it and he flushes. "It shouldn't be here… There aren't records of any of those on Circe's island."

"You mean you _know_ what it is? Wow, Sam, I never thought your tastes tended –"

"Shut _up_, Dean. It's a herma – a border marker. And a symbol of Hermes."

_A border marker?_ "So that bearded dude sticking out of the top…"

"Is Hermes. I guess we've come to the right place."

"OK, then." I look up at the still-dark sky. "Hi, Hermes. I don't know if you're listening, but my brother and I are kind of stuck and we could really use some divine intervention about now." I glance at Sam. "That good?"

It isn't Sam's voice that answers.

"You are not men of Greece." I turn, so sharply I almost give myself whiplash, and find myself facing… well, there's no doubt that he's a god. "You deal in lies."

If this is Hermes, I have to say I'm impressed. He's got a ripped body and he's – let's just say he's making _me _feel well-covered. Other than the – we'll call it a really tiny tunic – he's wearing a hat with wings on it, _sandals _with wings on them (and I thought fashions were ridiculous in the twenty-first century!), and carrying a rod with what looks like vines carved on it. Oh, and wings on that too.

Becky would love this dude.

He waves the rod and I realize they're not vines, they're _snakes_ and they're _alive_ and they're _moving _and _God _these Ancient Greeks are insane. Who carries around live snakes on a stick?

"We need your help," Sam says. "_Please._"

Hermes – if this is Hermes – is hovering a foot above the ground. At Sam's words he looks startled, letting himself fall and hitting the earth with a small bump.

"You didn't – _oh_, thank Father Zeus. I don't have to talk in poetry."

I look at Sam, and I'm relieved to see that he looks puzzled as well. I'm not the only one who thinks the Greek God of Thieves is a little weird.

Hermes sees the look and rolls his eyes. "You _do _know where you are?"

"Yeah, on – what's the island called, Sam?"

"Not that!" Hermes snaps. "You realize that you're not actually _in _Ancient Greece? You're in the Odyssey."

"We do," Sam says, "but how do _you _know that? You're part of the book. You shouldn't _know_ that you're in a story."

"I'm Hermes. I'm a god," Hermes says, looking like that should explain everything. After a moment he pulls an exasperated face and says, "_Look_, Homer believed in me. _Really_ believed in me… He believed I was omniscient – well, not as omniscient as Apollo, but close – and therefore in his book I _am _omniscient. I know where I am. Unfortunately, because Homer _wrote _the bloody book in poetry and Chapman translated it in poetry, I always have to _talk_ in poetry. It's enough to drive anyone to insanity. Every time anyone reads the book I have to come here and give Odysseus the _same_ advice and _believe _me it's boring." He stops, draws a breath, and goes on. "The mortals in the story have it lucky because they can forget. But we gods know _everything_, and I've spent hundreds of years endlessly visiting Aeaea. I've never seen _you _here before, so I'm guessing that you being here is why I'm not constrained to bloody iambic pentameter anymore. Who are you?"

"My name's Sam Winchester," Sam tells him. "And this is my brother Dean. We… aren't from the book."

"Obviously not." Hermes rolls his eyes, rising a few inches into the air. "I would have remembered you. So where are you from and why are you here? Is someone trying to rewrite the book or – give it a new interpretation or something?"

"We were sent here – we think it's a curse. We were hoping Circe could help us."

"Circe?" Hermes drops to the ground again – that seems to be his way of expressing surprise – and points up the path. "_That _Circe? Turn you into little pink pigs as soon as look at you? You think _she _will help you?"

"What else can we do?" Sam asks in a sad little voice. I know he's faking but it _still_ almost breaks my heart.

Hermes laughs, rising into the air again. "Lies, trickery, and now emotional manipulation… I like you, I really do. So… I'm going to help you."

* * *

><p>We're here.<p>

I am _never_ doing that again. We got the moly – and some advice – from Hermes. Then I got snapped at by a magic vine and I nearly broke my neck tripping on a rock and _then _a lion appeared from nowhere and started sniffing my feet. Of course I got freaked out, because who the hell can tell the difference between a lion sniffing your feet to be friendly and a lion sniffing your feet to decide if he wants them medium rare? I'm not a damn zookeeper.

And of _course_ Sam just rolled his eyes and said, "It's a _pet_, Dean. Just stroke it and it'll go away."

"_You_ stroke it," I said, because since _Sam_ was the one so freaking confident, _Sam_ could risk his fingers by touching the thing.

Sam sighed – his 'Big brothers are so _stupid_'' sigh – and stepped up next to me and reached out, and of course I grabbed his hand and pulled it back because I wasn't intending for him to _actually_ let it bite him. Sam shoved me off and knelt, and the lion licked his face like a freaking puppy. And then it licked my face too, and now I have lion drool on my collar and for some reason Sam thinks that's hilarious.

Bunch of freaking _freaks_.

Anyway, we're here, and I'm sure Circe's house has some unpleasant surprises but I doubt it'll have rufus-maned lions slobbering all over me.

It isn't a house so much as it is a palace.

The kitschiest palace I've ever seen. The statues on the lawn and the friezes and the whatnots – Sammy'll know what all that random marble crap is called – are painted in the most garish colours known to man. For a second I gape, and then I whisper, "Are you sure this is it?"

"There's no other building on the island, Dean. This must be it."

"But… _dude_."

"_What?_"

"Where's… you know…"

"Where's _what_, Dean?"

"The white marble columns and the white marble carvings and… you know, all the white stuff? This looks like a preschooler went crazy with crayons!"

Sam grins. "The white marble will come after the weather's had a chance to wear off all the paint. This is probably something like 800 BC, Dean. If we come back in a couple of thousand years we'll see all the elegant white statuary you want."

"Wait – you mean the Parthenon originally looked like _this_?"

"Probably. Classical scholars don't talk about it much because… Well, you know, the font of Western civilization and all that. Sophisticated, unrelieved white suits the image."

"Whatever. Geek. What do we do now?"

"Circe'll come. We wait. And Dean –"

"I _know_, Sam. I'm not a moron. We pretend to attack her and then we let her lure us back to the house on the pretext of getting to _know _us better, but no matter what happens we don't actually do the deed."

Sam nods, and we wait. It seems like hours, but it's probably just a few minutes, when a woman comes out of the Technicolor mansion.

The woman is absolutely _not _kitsch. She's hot, and not hot like a girl you pick up in a bar but _hot_ like – well, like a pagan sorceress, I guess. She's wearing a gown of some sort of filmy material that doesn't actually do much to protect her modesty. And she's smiling like –

"_Dean_," Sam hisses, and I belatedly remember to draw my sword.

Circe laughs, like me standing poised to strike – I swear, if Sam makes just _one _300 joke I'm going to _kill_ him – is amusing to her.

"Not what I was expecting," she drawls, and her voice is husky, sultry, and –

Focus.

"You were expecting Odysseus' men," Sam says.

She tilts her head – _oh, God, those eyes_ – and nods. Slowly. Like she's seeing him for the first time. I don't know how she could have failed to notice him, standing there as big as a Cyclops, but…

_Maybe it was because she only had eyes for me._

Focus, damn it!

"We need your help," I say.

Circe turns back to me and smiles. Thank god for moly, because without it I would've been in her bed by now.

I glance at Sam, but I can't read the expression on his face. It's dark, shuttered. He _might_ be falling for her, or he might be worried about me, or he might just be pissed that she's insulted his sense of propriety by coming out here in that non-dress.

"I think we can arrange that," Circe purrs, reaching out to run one finger lightly up my bare arm.

* * *

><p>"What do you want?"<p>

I glance at Sam, standing a few feet away. He's watching us, face scarlet, as we talk. Circe's standing so close I can feel her breath, whispering in my ear, and thank god for Hermes and thank god for moly and above all thank god for my stupid geek brother, because if I'd been here alone she would've taken my goods by now.

"We're from… another world," I say. "Or another plane or whatever the psychic term is. We need you to help us get back to it."

"Another world?"

"And another time. We belong about three thousand years in the future."

"I don't know about another _world_, but sending you into the future? Perhaps I can do something." She's pressing uncomfortably close now. "I will require _payment_."

"Hey, no hurry, is there?" I ask, stepping back. "I want to know how you're going to help us first."

She follows me. "I will collect my payment." Hands on my shoulders. "And if I am _satisfied_, we will speak of your problem."

Damn it. _Damn it damn it damn it._ Hottest woman I've ever seen freaking _throwing _herself at me and I have to say no. Couldn't freaking Homer have written a _nice _sorceress who'd have a romp with me and then send us back to our world with a load of gold or something? And without trying to take away my manhood – thanks for putting _that _picture in my head, Hermes – or turning us into farm animals?

_Damn Winchester luck._

And the one time it would've been convenient to have the woman go for Sam. He's the one who knows the right answers in freakland.

Sam meets my eyes. We have to get away.

Circe can apparently read minds, because she turns and waves her hand at Sam. Nothing happens.

Good. Looks like the moly's working.

Except – not good. Circe looks angry now, eyes glimmering, sparkling, flashing as though lightning's going to shoot out of them any minute. Her whole _body's_ glowing, and I have a feeling that whatever's coming is going to be bad.

"So," she hisses. "You have spoken to Hermes. You thought you would trick me."

"Sam!" I yell. "_Run!_"

* * *

><p>"What do we <em>do<em>?"

Sam looks around wildly. He's a few feet ahead of me on those coltishly long legs of his, and behind me there's the sound of really expensive marble turning into worthless rubble. Circe seems to be willing to destroy her own palace to get us.

Of course, she can probably put it back together by snapping her fingers.

"Here!" Sam yells suddenly, diving into a doorway to his right. I follow, and –

A freaking _library_?

"Are you crazy?" I snap at Sam. "This is how we got into this mess to begin with! _Even _if we find something, it's just going to take us to some other freakish world. That's no good. We have to figure out how to break the curse!"

"All I can see us doing is _dying_ if we don't get out!" Sam retorts. "Come on, Dean. _Look._ Maybe there'll be some crappy chick lit."

"_Chick lit_?"

"Nobody will be trying to kill us in chick lit!"

Circe's getting closer, so I nod, and we start to go through the shelves. There's nothing – just racks and racks of Greek books and, seriously, I had no idea that the Ancient Greeks _produced _this much literature. No wonder they're not around anymore; probably got too busy writing tragedies to worry about bringing forth the next generation.

Circe's at the door –

Sam's thrown back into the wall, and the stupid moly must be wearing off –

A title catches my eye.

_English._

Circe starts blasting the floor.

I pause just long enough to make sure I'm not going to send us into Hogwarts. Then I dive for Sam – we were sitting very close the first two times and I _don't_ want to risk us ending us in different places – grab his arm and read.

"_It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune…_"

We fall.

* * *

><p>What did you think? Good? Bad? Please review!<p> 


	6. On His First Entering a Neighbourhood

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. None of it.

Thanks to Cheryl and to SandyDee84 for some brilliant suggestions.

Thanks to Eavis, hotshow, Katy M VT, Whateva876, tiffaroolou, Dodo.123, BranchSuper, Tendencia, nupinoop296, Kathryn Marie Black, SPN Mum, Too Many Screennames, sammynanci, criminally charmed, giacinta, SandyDee84, idlewild1, JackieLupin and BerrySPNFMA for reviewing.

**Author's Note: **I'm going to be a bit busy over the next few days, so the next update will probably be Monday or Tuesday. Merry Christmas to everyone who celebrates it!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter V: On His First Entering a Neighbourhood<strong>

We land on the ground. _Hard._

I'm on my hands and knees trying to catch my breath, dimly aware of the sound of horses neighing and clopping their hooves and wheels on gravel.

"What the _hell_?" I hear Sam groan, and I second the sentiment. Sammy's always had a way with words. I think _What the hell? _sums up the situation pretty nicely.

I get to my feet and look around. We're standing on a tree-lined road, there's a horse-drawn carriage disappearing ahead of us, and behind us there are two horses rearing and snorting and generally making enough noise to wake the dead. (And _believe_ me, I'm speaking from experience.)

I sneak a glance at Sam. He's wearing black pants, a red coat over a white shirt, knee-high riding boots, and a dorky black hat. From the feel of it, I'm dressed the same way.

I would've been happier in normal clothes, but I suppose English cavalry uniforms beat Ancient Greek nightdresses.

I feel at my belt, but all I find is the hilt of a sword.

Awesome. Here we are in England two hundred years ago, and all we've got to defend ourselves with are weapons that went out of date _six _hundred years ago. I _know_ there were guns around in the nineteenth century, but Sam and I, despite being cavalry officers – Light Dragoons, from the look of it – are walking around with freaking _swords _like a pair of freaking civilians.

"It must be peacetime," Sam says, reading my scowl. "Besides, I doubt we'll need guns here."

"We always need guns. Even here. Maybe _especially _here."

"Where are we, anyway?" I stare at Sam. I know he probably didn't see which book I grabbed, but even _I _would've recognized that line. It's inconceivable that he didn't. "Dean?"

"Dude, don't you know?"

"All I see is some trees and a road and a carriage whose occupants we seem to have offended, because they tried to run us over."

"Weren't you listening to what I read?"

"I was kind of occupied with trying not to get fried by the mad sorceress. Where are we, Dean?"

"_Pride and Prejudice_," I say, and wait for his reaction.

It's not what I expected. I was expecting an outburst of facts and dates and commentaries on the novel's leading characters, maybe the beginning of a plan, but all Sam says is, "Oh. That explains the uniforms. I guess it could be worse… At least we're not being fed slops in Circe's pigpen."

I wait, but that's the end of the conversation, and Sam walks away to retrieve the horses – which, presumably, are ours. I suppose we were thrown off, or something, when that carriage came by.

The horses respond to Sam. I'm not surprised: my brother is good with animals. Maybe it's the puppy-dog eyes. He probably tricks them into believing he's one of them. Sam has the horses kind of under control in a few minutes – they're still skittish, still too jumpy to mount, but we're no longer in danger of being trampled.

"Which way?" Sam asks, leading both horses to me and giving me one bridle strap.

I shrug. "We must be somewhere near the town of Meryton. Maybe if we go there we'll be able to figure out what to do next." Sam stares. "What?"

"You've read _Pride and Prejudice_?"

"_What?_ Dude, _you're_ the girl, not me. Of course I haven't read _Pride and Prejudice_. I just saw the movie. Had that chick from _Pirates of the Caribbean_. She's hot."

Sam frowns, but he lets it go.

"Fine. So which way is Meryton?"

"That way?" I suggest, pointing in the direction the carriage went. "They might've been going into town."

"Or they might have been leaving town."

"Do you have a better idea?"

Sam looks at me, at the trees, and at the road, stretching gray-brown and empty on either side of us. Finally, with a grudging shake of his head, he says, "Fine. Let's follow the carriage. If it leads us into a vampire nest, just remember it's your fault."

"No vampire nests in Jane Austen, Sammy. Come on."

* * *

><p>We've been walking for about twenty minutes, leading the horses – neither of us wants to risk another fall – when we hear voices and footsteps. My automatic reaction is to go for my sword – even a sadly out-of-date weapon is better than no weapon at all – but I remember just in time that these are probably civilians out for a walk and we aren't going to endear ourselves to the locals by waving bare steel at them.<p>

A group of people crests the rise. There are two – no, three – girls, varying in age from mid to late teens, and two men. They're both dressed in the same cavalry uniforms we're wearing, so I guess we're supposed to be from the same regiment or whatever.

The two younger girls are staring at me with open admiration. Instead of feeling happy about that, I can feel my cheeks getting hot – they're freaking _underage_. If I'd been about fifteen years younger I might've thought about how sixteen was old enough to marry in England in the early nineteenth century, but since I'm _not _fifteen years younger I'm thinking about how anything more PG than a dance can probably get you excommunicated in England in the early nineteenth century.

Yup. Definitely getting too old for this job.

The oldest girl frowns at me, looking like if she had her way she'd excommunicate me right now just for breathing too loudly.

And then I realize who they must be: the three younger Bennett sisters.

"Miss Bennett." I'm not quite sure how a British officer is supposed to go about bowing; I settle for tilting my head a bit and sense Sam mirroring the action. I don't have to look to know he's even more uncomfortable with the girls' hungry eyes than I am. "Miss Kitty. Miss Lydia."

The oldest girl – Mary Bennett – responds with a frigid, "Mr. Winchester." Looks like she knows us. She turns to Sam. "Mr. Winchester." Looks like we're brothers. "Are you bound for Longbourne?"

I can't think of a way out of it, so I say, "We hoped to meet your sisters."

"My sisters?" Lydia giggles, before Mary can say anything. "Or Miss Lucas? I know you've never called on us when Miss Lucas has been absent."

That's something I _can_ live with – Charlotte Lucas, if I remember right, is _definitely_ legal – so I smile and shake my head, and Lydia giggles again and tells me they're going into Meryton but they'll see us at tomorrow's dance. Then the five of them head off in the opposite direction.

"See?" Sam hisses as soon as they're out of earshot. "Meryton is _that _way."

"So? We can go to Longbourne. There's a library in Longbourne, Sammy. Might find something useful there. And if not, maybe we can find our way to Netherfield. It's bound to have – _what_?"

Because Sam's staring at me as though I have three heads.

"Longbourne? Netherfield? You know the names of the _houses_, Dean. And you didn't have any trouble identifying the girls."

"I told you I saw the movie."

"Dean! This is a book! None of those girls looked anything like Keira Knightley, or whoever it was who played them in the movie."

"What's your point, Sam?"

"You've read the book. Just _admit_ it, Dean."

I sigh. It's a ridiculous thing to fixate over – how the hell does it matter whether I read the book or saw the movie or memorized the Cliffsnotes? But trust Sammy not to let it go.

"Sammy –"

"Wait, I remember when you saw the movie. It was that werewolf hunt in New Mexico, when you spent the night with the McDonald's cashier instead of helping me research –"

"You didn't need my help, geek."

"That's not the point. You came back at ten in the morning muttering about Keira Knightley. I didn't realize what it meant at the time, but –"

"But nothing. I saw the movie, Sam. I already told you that. She had the DVD and she insisted on us watching it and it turned out to be less awful than I expected, so I actually managed to stay awake through all of it. That's _it_. End of story."

"That's not the end of the story, Dean. I remember what happened the next day. You came to the library claiming you were going to help me research –"

"I didn't want to listen to you whining all day."

"You helped me for less than three minutes –"

"I underestimated how boring it would be to spend more time with you than I absolutely had to."

"Then you disappeared for, what, five and a half hours? I found you discussing Regency Literature with the redheaded librarian –"

"Dude, she was hot."

"You read the book, Dean. I don't know why you're being so defensive –"

"_You're _the one being defensive."

"Dean –"

"_Fine_," I snap, hoping that it'll shut Sam up. "Fine, I read the book. I read the stupid book. And I impressed the McDonald's cashier _and _the librarian. Two girls with one book, Sammy, which is more than can ever be said for you. Are you happy now?"

Sam just laughs and keeps walking.

One day I'm going to kill him. Or at least lock him in a room full of clowns for an hour.

* * *

><p>Longbourne's bigger than I imagined – not quite a mansion, but not tiny either. A maid opens the door and directs us to the back garden. There are two girls waiting there, early twenties. I don't need geek boy to help me figure out who they are.<p>

"Miss Bennett," I say, doing the head-bowing thing again. "Miss Elizabeth."

I wait for Sam to echo me, but he doesn't. When I turn to look at him, I see him duck his head and look shyly at the girls with wide hazel eyes and an awkward smile. He mumbles something about a book he's been wanting to read, blushing and stammering, and in less than a minute they both look like they're on the verge of patting his head and offering him a lollipop. Elizabeth Bennett escorts him off in the direction of the library, and I'm left alone with her sister.

Apparently puppy-dog eyes work everywhere.

I spend a fairly boring hour chatting with Jane Bennett. She's nice enough – I mean, she's not yelling at me or trying to kill me, which is more than can be said for most of the women I meet. But there's only so long a guy can listen to comments on the weather without going crazy.

I do pick up one useful piece of information, which is that there's a ball at Netherfield tomorrow. That must be the dance the girls were talking about. It's a relief to hear it – the library at Netherfield, if I remember right, is _much _bigger than the one at Longbourne. I'm sure Sam and I can figure out a way to sneak off to it in the middle of the ball. After the training we've had, picking nineteenth-century locks is going to be easy.

Sam and Elizabeth eventually emerge from the library, laughing about something. I hear enough to know it's something stupid and geeky, and then I stop paying attention to what they're saying because it's so much more fun just to watch.

Sam seems to be in his element now – the dork always liked drama. He's playing up to Miss Bennett, nodding, holding doors open for her, carrying her basket.

"C'mon, Sammy," I say when they're in earshot. "We need to get back."

We say our goodbyes, promise to see Miss Bennett and Miss Bennett at the ball, and go around to the front where a groom is already waiting with our horses. They seem calmer this time, so we mount. I can't help glancing into every pond and puddle we pass, because I cut a _dashing_ figure on horseback. Sam takes that as his cue to tell me how someone called Narcissus got turned into an echo because he fell in love with a pool of water – or something of the kind; I'm not really listening – but he's just jealous because he knows he doesn't look half as good.

"Find anything?" I ask, more to shut Sam up than because I think he did.

Sam shakes his head. "It's harder to tell now – I don't _think _there was anything, but I couldn't be sure without opening the books. I didn't want to do that without you."

"Yeah, you'd be lost without me."

"I think I can find my way through a _book_ without you holding my hand, Dean."

"Oh, yeah? Is Elizabeth going to dance with Darcy at tomorrow's ball?" Sam stares, gulps, and I know I have him. "Well?" I press gleefully, because I hardly ever get to score points over the geek when it comes to books.

"Shut up, Dean."

"What's Bingley's brother-in-law called?"

"I can't believe you even know these things."

"I can't believe _you_ don't. What's that thing you always tell me about how it's necessary to read something other than skin mags?"

"How do you do this to me?" Sam groans. "_You're_ the one who seems to know _Pride and Prejudice_ off by heart. Every law in the _universe_ says that _I_ should get to mock _you_ about that. But _no_ –"

"Didn't you have it for AP English, Sam? You telling me you didn't memorize your entire booklist?"

"_Dean._"

* * *

><p>What did you think? Good? Bad? Please review!<p> 


	7. A Truth Universally Acknowledged

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing.

Thanks to BranchSuper, Dodo.123, Sameuspegasus, Katy M VT, Kathryn Marie Black, Kirabaros, Whateva876, Victorian Secret, tiffaroolou, criminally charmed, hotshow, CeCe Away, SandyDee84, Tendencia, Eavis, sammynanci, nupinoop296, SPN Mum and BerrySPNFMA for the reviews.

Thanks to Cheryl and SandyDee84!

**Author's Note:** I tried to reply to everyone, but the site was being weird (wouldn't even let me upload this yesterday) so I don't know if all the replies went through… If you didn't get a review reply, I'm really sorry!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter VI: A Truth Universally Acknowledged<strong>

It's a long ride to Meryton and a longer ride past it to where the soldiers are quartered, and by the time we're there my legs are aching like a horde of leprechauns has been jumping on them, my back is reminding me that I'm thirty-three years old, and I can't even feel my ass.

I'm starting to have new respect for cowboys and cavalrymen.

Sam groans as he dismounts, and I feel a twinge of sympathy. If I hurt, Sam must feel like hell. It's one of the times I don't grudge him the extra inches. A boy runs up for our horses, and Sam flicks him a penny and an admonition not to eat too many sweets.

_Dork._

By unspoken agreement, we separate. We have some digging to do.

It sounded awesome in theory, putting ourselves in a world where there were no giant eyes or evil witches. Now that we're here… Not so much. I haven't actually _mentioned_ the possibility that the Netherfield library might not hold any answers either, but I've thought of it. If I know Sam, he's thought of it, too. After all, the Elf-dude's house and the mad sorceress's palace were both… well… magic places. What if the magic teleportation books only exist in magic places?

What if we're stuck in bloody _Pride and Prejudice _for freaking _ever_?

Not helping. I need to calm down.

I spend the next couple of hours mingling and talking. It's a lot easier than I expected, talking to the other officers – most of them haven't seen a day's combat, although they've _heard _a lot of yarns. (Sam's doing better than me at war stories – _again_. When I pass him while walking to the river with some kid called Sanderson I hear him saying something about 'when our father fought in the Anglo-Mysore war'.)

We need to get back to our world _now_.

The talking reveals nothing except the information that everyone's excited about the ball tomorrow night. Apparently nineteenth-century chicks dig guys in uniform just as much as twenty-first-century chicks do. I hear some complaints about the lack of heiresses in the area – apparently the only rich girl is Miss Bingley (When I get the chance I whisper to Sam that she's the sister of Mr Bingley, the guy Jane Bennett's in love with, and he whispers back, "I'm not an _idiot_, Dean." It feels _so_ good to be on the other side of that fence.)

Anyway, Miss Bingley. Only real heiress in the area, but way too snooty to pay any attention to the lowly commissioned officers (except maybe to whisper to her equally snooty sister about how lowly and commissioned they are). As a consequence, nobody's expecting more than some dancing and flirting, but everyone's looking forward to that.

I find myself looking forward to it, too. I could use a diversion.

* * *

><p>Remember when I said Longbourne wasn't quite the size of a mansion?<p>

Yeah, well, Netherfield makes up for it.

Netherfield isn't quite the size of a mansion either. It's the size of _four _mansions stacked together, surrounded by _acres_ of rolling parkland. I've got a feeling they could fit the entire state of Vermont into the grounds, with enough space left over for a couple of Olympic stadiums.

Sam and I ride there with the rest of the officers camped out near Meryton. This time we can't take it at an easy walk once we start to ache. It's a brisk trot the entire way, and when it's time to dismount I have to grab the bridle for a moment to steady myself.

We go up and inside, where we're greeted by the most uppity girl I've ever seen. Miss Bingley, I'm guessing. When she says hello to me it's like I'm a retarded child she's being forced to let into her house and she's hoping I won't break anything. I try my most charming Dean Winchester grin, and it just makes her wrinkle her nose a little. That would've been enough to tell me that she's an arrogant bitch, but then she does something even _more_ unbelievable.

Sam, a couple of paces behind me, gives her a tiny, self-conscious smile, accompanied by full-force puppy-dog eyes.

She frowns at him.

Yeah, I know. I can't believe it either. This is _Sammy_ we're talking about. Sammy going out of his way to look like a puppy whose tail you stepped on but that still wants to be friends with you. And the woman _frowned_.

"_Christo_," I whisper, just to be sure.

She doesn't react.

This is ridiculous. We're not in some mediaeval grimoire. This is Jane freaking _Austen_. There's no magic. There are no demons. There's just dancing and clergymen and cavalrymen and snooty aristocrats. Miss Bingley is an arrogant bitch, but that's all she is.

All the same, I'm taking no chances with Sam.

I nudge him, say, "C'mon, Sammy, there's someone I want you to meet," and lead the way in.

The inside is bustling with activity. Every available corner is filled with knots of giggling girls. There are couples going up and down the dance floor, men discussing shooting and whether there's going to be a war with France, and a bunch of older women clustered around a table gossiping about whether Mr Bingley has falling in love with Jane Bennett and what Miss Bingley has to say about it – freaking soap opera, I swear – and this is all very well, but we have a serious problem.

When I figured that Sam and I would get to the house and then slip away and find the library, I hadn't accounted for the fact that the house would be the size of an apartment block. Sam and I are _good_, but a place like this is bound to be bursting with butlers and footmen and under-footmen. The longer we have to wander around searching for the library, the likelier it is that we'll get caught. And as I've just found out, if we _do_ get caught, there'll be no sweet-talking Miss Bingley.

If Miss Bingley has us thrown out, we'll have to trek _miles_ to find a decent library.

Right. We need a Plan B.

We need someone to tell us where the library is.

Bingley. If this is Jane Austen, Mr Bingley ought to be pleasant but essentially an idiot. I'm sure I can get him to tell me where the library is – maybe he'll even get one of the under-footmen to escort me there.

* * *

><p>It takes me half an hour to track Bingley down, and once I do he's firmly attached to Jane Bennett's side. He obviously wants to be stubborn and ignore my hints that I need to talk to him, but he <em>is <em>the most notorious pushover in Regency Literature (according to that librarian, anyway), and I'm used to dealing with the personification of stubbornness known as Sammy Winchester.

I have my story ready. My brother's heard a lot about how wonderful the Netherfield library is, and it would make him so happy if Mr Bingley could let him see it, just for a few minutes. (We only need a few minutes: once we know where it is, and more specifically where the windows are, we can make a second trip later.) It would help if I had Sam with me, but we split up to cover ground faster and I can't see him nearby. Still, it shouldn't take much to get Bingley to tell me where the library is and then –

_Damn it._

Winchester luck. Bloody Winchester luck. Why the hell can't Winchester luck _ever_ be one of the things that get left behind in our world? Miss Snooty Bitch is making her way towards us. She looks like she thinks I'm trying to sell her brother shares in some non-existent South African diamond mine.

On reflection, I can't blame her for being concerned. If I saw Sam talking to someone I thought might be out to hurt him, the guy would be out the door on his ass – if he was lucky – in under a minute. I _can_ blame her for not falling for the puppy-dog eyes, because that's a sign that she's pure evil – but that's a different issue altogether.

Anyway, here she is, and I repeat my story to her. I try to be as ingratiating as I can, but I already know it's not going to work.

I wander away, meeting Bingley's apologetic eyes with a smile – it's not his fault his sister's a bitch. _My _bitch is nowhere in sight, but that's OK. Sam's safe enough here, and since we can't do anything now, he might as well have some fun before we start thinking about Plan C.

Elizabeth Bennett is sitting by the piano with her sister Mary, who looks even more disapproving than the Bingley woman.

It suddenly strikes me that Elizabeth probably _does_ know where the library is – she's been in this house before, hasn't she? And she got on wonderfully with Sam yesterday; he could probably get the location from her in just a few minutes. Of course the stupid geek had to pick _this _time to go MIA.

I guess I need to take one for the team.

"Would you care for a walk?" I ask Elizabeth. She raises an eyebrow – that's an unusual thing to say in the middle of a ball – and I explain, "If I danced it would be unpleasant for me and for everyone else. Walking, on the other hand, is something I can manage."

* * *

><p>Elizabeth is a lot more fun than Jane. She knows all the dirt about everyone and she's willing to dish it out – and no, I am not gossiping! I'm gathering valuable information about our situation.<p>

It's a comment from Elizabeth that makes me realize I haven't seen Mr Darcy all evening. He's supposed to be here – I _remember_ the damn book and he's supposed to be _here_, hanging around looking tall and broody and spoiling everyone's evening because he can't let his hair down and have a little fun.

Wow. Never realized how much my brother and the hero of _Pride and Prejudice_ have in common.

So… Two eight-foot-tall PMSing gentlemen, and they're both missing. And Darcy's probably the same age as Sam right now, give or take a year.

If we'd been back in our world I would've been calling for backup by now – that's too much to be a coincidence, too much to be anything but a ghost with a fetish for dark-haired men between twenty-five and thirty, and I don't wait to find things out the hard way when it's a question of Sam's safety. But this is Jane Austen and there can't be anything supernatural because Jane Austen didn't believe in the supernatural.

She didn't, did she? She was a clergyman's daughter. No way she could've believed –

But Sam is missing and Darcy is missing, and I have no idea where either of them is. Any way you cut it, this doesn't look good.

Damn it.

"Is something wrong?" Elizabeth says.

I'm about to say I'm worried about Sam, and then I realize how ridiculous it'll sound. At this point if we were back in Max's house, he probably _could_ shift that cabinet with just upper-body strength. The problem, of course, is that although he's as strong as an ox he's also as gentle as a kitten, and anything that wants to hurt him can reel him in by pretending to be in distress and need his help.

Elizabeth, who's smarter than most of the girls around here, says, "Your brother must be fine. The worst that can happen to him is that Lydia and Kitty will corner him, make him dance, and talk to him about lace-trimmed bonnets for twenty-five minutes. That would be a misfortune, but not so serious as to merit your intervention."

I have to agree with her. Being lectured about lace-trimmed bonnets would probably do Sam all the good in the world – _and _it'll keep him occupied while I do some actual _work_.

Because I've just remembered that Elizabeth spent a few days at Netherfield with Jane, and so she _must_ know where the library is.

Getting the location out of her is a different story. I'm sure that wandering around somebody else's house showing a fellow-visitor the way to their library without their permission would offend nineteenth-century notions of propriety. Sam could puppy-dog his way through propriety, but he's not here –

Still, doesn't mean he can't do his fair share of the work. Elizabeth seemed to get on well with him.

I lay it on thick, explaining how I know Sam would love to see the library and Mr Bingley was eager to show me but he was whisked away by his duties as a host, and would Miss Bennett mind showing me the way? I wouldn't ask if I didn't already have Mr Bingley's permission, but since I do, and since he is otherwise occupied… And it would make my younger brother so happy…

Elizabeth is willing.

She leads the way through the corridors and up the stairs. When we finally reach the library door, there's a light shining under it.

If it had been _our _time I'd've been sure that someone – perhaps several someones – had wanted a little privacy.

I meet Elizabeth's eyes. She shrugs, and I knock.

Someone yells something from inside. It might be, "Come in!" I can't tell; the door is thick, heavy oak and it muffles the sound.

I push the door open a little, and –

_Sam._

Sam and _Darcy_.

Sam and Darcy sitting at a small table with a pile of books in front of them, discussing antecedents and translations and extant original copies.

I really shouldn't be surprised. It stands to reason that if anyone can make Jane Austen's most notoriously arrogant son of a bitch unbend enough to open the library and have what looks like a _friendly_ conversation about the books in it, it would be Sammy.

They both look up. Darcy scowls as though we've interrupted something important, but Sam says, "Mr Darcy, I don't know if you've met my brother Dean."

The scowl vanishes and there's something that _might_ be a hint of a smile on Darcy's face.

Sam is _bloody_ good at this. When we get back to our world, I'm going to buy him a vanilla latte.

"Mr Winchester." Darcy sounds genuinely happy to meet me. "Your brother has been telling me a great deal about you. I have a younger sister, myself."

A vanilla latte with caramel.

"I was just about to send someone for you," Darcy goes on. "Your brother thought you might be interested in these books. I have a more extensive library at my home in Derbyshire; you are both welcome to visit at any time you please."

And cinnamon sprinkles.

I look at the pile of books in front of Sam and Darcy, and all of a sudden I realize that Sam's obviously opened and read some of them.

Scratch that latte. What he's going to get is a beat-down.

"Don't worry," Sam says, reading my look. "Not these."

"How can you be sure?"

I can't keep an angry edge out of my voice. It's a stupid, stupid risk – we can't afford to get separated.

Darcy and Elizabeth, obviously sensing that Sam's about to get it and _good_, excuse themselves. I wait just long enough for the door to shut behind them.

"How could you be so _stupid_, Sam? If one of those had been it –"

"I knew they wouldn't be!"

"How?"

"Darcy knew about them. They're old books, Dean. Eighteenth-century or older. They belong here. The last two times it was always a book that _didn't_ belong."

"So… We're looking for a book written after _Pride and Prejudice_."

Sam nods. "Yeah. Late nineteenth century at the very earliest. Why don't you start on the left?"

There's something in Sam's voice.

I look at the shelves. They go from floor to ceiling (and it's a pretty high ceiling; there's a stepladder to reach the higher shelves) all along the walls. It'll take us _days_.

I look at Sam again. He's not meeting my eyes.

"You found something," I say. "Didn't you?"

"There might be something else."

"What did you find?"

"We should keep looking. I'm sure there's –"

"_Sam._"

Sam, still not meeting my eyes, holds up a book. It's obviously something a lot newer than the rest of the stuff here: it's a paperback, with a picture on the cover. He's too far away for me to read the title, but I can see the picture: a gigantic black dog with glowing yellow eyes and fire coming out of his mouth.

I shiver. No wonder the poor kid's freaked.

"Come on, Sam," I say gently.

"Dean, _please_. I can't. You – and _it _– I just _can't_. It's too much like… Too much like the time when your deal came due. I can't – if something happens to you –"

"Is it a hellhound?"

"No, but –"

"So? Not a hellhound. No problem." Sam doesn't look convinced. "Come on, kiddo. It'll be fine. We're not going to go anywhere near the dog. We just need to go there and see if there's someone who can help us. If there's nobody, we get to a library. And we stay away from the creepy dog."

"Promise me," Sam says. "In and out. You're not going to try to go after it. No matter what."

I frown. Sam's hiding something. "Sam –"

"_Promise me._"

I don't want to promise something like this, I _really_ don't. It goes against every instinct. But Sammy sounds like he's going to burst into tears, and there's really only one thing I can do.

"OK, kiddo," I say gently. "I promise."

Sam beckons me closer. When I'm a foot away, he flicks the book open to a random page.

"_Sir Henry Baskerville and Dr. Mortimer were ready upon the appointed day…_"

* * *

><p>What did you think? Good? Bad? Please review!<p> 


	8. The Game's Afoot

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

**Author's Note: **Yeah, I did kind-of-sort-of cheat with the title. But I think it can count for Doyle just this once. ;-) This chapter's up today because I'll be away over the weekend – so, once again, next update on Monday.

To everyone reading this story, I wish you a very happy 2012.

Thanks to Cheryl and SandyDee84, and to criminally charmed, luvmydogz, Kathryn Marie Black, BerrySPNFMA, Katy M VT, doyleshuny, Eavis, Whateva876, BranchSuper, SPN Mum and Tendencia.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter VII: The Game's Afoot<strong>

When the mist clears, we're still in a library – but it's a different library now. I can't quite put my finger on exactly what, but something about it seems _newer_.

We're clearly still in a country house: there's a huge window to my left and the curtains are drawn back to reveal rolling parkland bounded by a high wall. Beyond that there's a huge, empty moor that's so damp and foggy and positively _creepy _that if I didn't know better, I'd say we were back on the job.

I'd be _thrilled_ if we were back on the job. Vengeful spirits? Angels trying to kill us? Demons out for our blood? Bring them. They can't possibly be worse than freaking _Sauron_.

But no such luck. We're special that way. Other hunters just have to hunt and bitch about having to hunt. It takes the Brothers Winchester to find situations that suck so completely and comprehensively that they make staking out the house of a suspected werewolf seem like an evening of entertainment in comparison.

So, yeah, we're in a library. It isn't as big as the Netherfield one, but it's big enough that Sam's probably feeling like a kid in a candy store.

That's what I would've thought, anyway, but when I look at Sam he seems a little nervous. Before I can ask him where the hell we are and why he's upset about being in geek paradise, the door to the library opens.

The man who comes in looks like a Brit dude from a period movie. He's got a moustache and side-whiskers and he's wearing a three-piece suit in a depressing shade of greyish-brown, topped off with a horrible yellow tie that totally doesn't match.

The sight makes me check what I'm wearing. I just manage to hold back a sigh of relief. It looks like Sam and I are still soldiers – and this time we're the _good _soldiers, the sensible soldiers who carry guns like reasonable human beings instead of toting swords around and expecting the bad guys with AK-47s to quake in their shoes.

"Have you found anything?" the man asks. Neither of us answers. He prompts impatiently, "_Selden_. Have you found him?"

I can practically hear the cogs whirring in Sam's brain. He bites his lip, bows his head a little, and finally shakes his head. It's a masterful performance. Hollywood doesn't know what it lost.

"No," Sam admits sadly. "We're doing the best we can, sir."

He looks like a puppy that doesn't know why it's just been kicked. Dude with the yellow tie doesn't stand a chance.

"I'm sure you are, but you must appreciate that this is an untenable position! How much longer are we to…" He trails off at the sight of Sam's guilt-stricken face.

Seriously, these Brit dudes seem even more gullible than the Americans – first Darcy, and now this guy, whose name I still don't know. If only we were hunting monsters in England… We wouldn't have to do any research _ever_. Sam would just show up and look sorry for himself and that would be _it_.

"Just tell me how much longer," the dude says at last.

"We'll be able to tell you more in a few hours, Sir Henry," Sam promises, sounding brisk and business-like and just a little deferential. "We _will _find him, I promise you that."

Sir Henry grunts and leaves.

"Sam?" I ask as soon as we're alone. "Who the hell is Selden and why are we looking for him?"

"He's an escaped convict – a murderer. The area's full of soldiers looking for him."

I'm not too worried about the escaped convict. It's not ideal to be wandering around in the same county as a murderer and possible lunatic, yeah, but considering the kind of company we _have _kept…

"And where are we?" I ask, because that's the more pertinent question right now.

"Sherlock Holmes. _The Hound of the Baskervilles_."

"Oh." I pause, taking that in. "Giant spectral dog that foretells death?"

"Something like that. Except that it's not a real spectre. It's just –" He looks around and lowers his voice. "It's just a normal hound dog with phosphorus smeared on it."

"You think so? Big ghostly dog, people dying… If we were back home, we'd check this out."

"But we're _not_ back home. Dean, the only thing that matters here is what was in the book. And in the book it was just a regular dog. Sir Charles Baskerville saw it and had a heart attack out of pure fear."

"If you really thought so," I point out, "you wouldn't've made me promise not to go after it _no matter what_."

"Dean, please –"

"Sam." Sam looks up at me, and I can tell he's only seconds away from tearing up. He looks like a distraught child. Unfortunately for Sammy, I'm just about strong enough to ignore the eyes when I have to. For a few moments, anyway. "Sammy, c'mon," I say gently. "Tell me what it is."

"I should never have brought us here," Sam says, ducking his head. "It was stupid."

"It's not like we had a lot of options. What is it? You think it might be something else? A Black Dog?"

There's silence for several seconds. When Sam speaks again, his voice is shaking. "Samuel – Samuel Campbell – told me once that he thought Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was a hunter – or came from a family of hunters at the very least. He didn't _write _that the Hound of the Baskervilles was supernatural, but he might have _thought _it, and if he thought it…"

"Then, for our purposes, it is," I finish. "Fine. Let's gank it."

"Dean, it's not that simple. Just let it go."

"Don't be ridiculous, Sam."

"Dean, this is a book! It's freaking _fiction_! The only supernatural hounds are in Conan Doyle's head. We know how this is going to end. Just let it go. _Please._"

"Sam –"

"Dean, _please_."

"What if it kills more people?"

"It's a _book_. When you turn the last page, it's over. There's nothing more after that unless you read it again."

"When we – wait. When you turn the last page it's _over_?"

"I'd think so," Sam says, looking startled at the question. "Why?"

"What happens if we're still hanging around when the writer says _THE END_?"

"Let's just say we should try not to be." _Right._ Now I feel _so _much worse about all this. "Don't worry," Sam adds, sensing my thoughts. "We're a long way from the end."

"Not _this _book I'm worried about. OK, what now?"

"We search." Sam gestures. "It's a big library. Pick a row."

"Fine. And Sam –"

"Don't open anything. I know."

For once it would be _nice _to have a case – or even part of a case – that began and ended with looking stuff up in the library. You know, sit around pretending to read and watch the way Sammy's expressions change while he's flicking through books.

Most fun I've ever had was watching Sam go through a codex a few years ago. It was the kind of thing only one of those kinky mediaeval alchemists could've written, a combination of erotica, obscure lore, and DIY potion-brewing instructions. Kid was alternating between blushing scarlet and pursing his lips at the more… explicit… illustrations, taking copious notes, and handling the pages with an incredible amount of care while at the same time trying not to actually _touch_ any of the pictures. It was freaking hilarious.

Really, you'd think this time it would be easy. We materialized right into the library, we don't have to get through murderous sorceresses or pass ourselves off as Rangers, all we have to do is _find _the freaking _book_. And considering that I'm with Supergeek, it shouldn't take more than five minutes.

Yeah. That's me. The eternal optimist.

We pick our rows. Sam's working near one of the windows, I'm near the door, and for a while neither of us says anything. It's not exactly quiet: the windows are open, and we can hear people – probably soldiers looking for that Selden character – shouting to each other. There's the occasional bark of a dog, making me wonder if they have bloodhounds on his trail – I pity the son of a bitch if so, murderer or not.

Then something makes Sam stop short and raise his head, staring at the window. (Yeah, I had my back to him, but it's _Sam_ and I haven't been a big brother for almost twenty-nine years for nothing.)

I go to join him.

"What is it, Sammy? Hear something?"

"Listen," Sam hisses.

I listen. There's a bit of a commotion – apparently an unexpected visitor has shown up. There are excited voices, loud but indistinct.

I glance at Sam. He shrugs.

"I don't know. I suppose it's Stapleton's wife or somebody like that. I guess it doesn't matter… We still need to find the book and get out of here."

I don't bother asking who Stapleton's wife is. Kind of book this is, Stapleton and his wife are both probably suspects in some gruesome murder involving a glowing phosphorescent dog. The less I see of them, the better.

"If you say so, Sasquatch. Keep looking."

Sam gets back to work. I sit in a big armchair by the window and put my feet up on a small padded ottoman. Sam makes bitchfaces. I ignore them. Finally Sam gets tired of frowning disapprovingly at the back of my head and says, "What the _hell_, Dean?"

"I'm taking a break."

"It's barely been ten minutes."

"Ten minutes of looking through books, Sammy. That's your department, not mine. I would just slow you down. So I'll just sit here and enjoy the breeze while you do your thing. Go to it, tiger."

Sam scowls at me, but he doesn't push it. I'm surprised. I expected to be hauled physically from the chair. For a moment I wonder if there's something wrong with Sam, then… No, kid's fine. Just broody as usual. I'll let him work for a bit, and then maybe I can persuade him to come downstairs with me. Place like this is bound to have a huge, well-stocked pantry, and Sam might as well use the eyes for something useful and get us some food.

As I expected, it takes a while for me to persuade Sam to come downstairs when the time comes. I'm not complaining: considering how relentless he is when he's got a problem, I was expecting a detailed and unflattering commentary on my lack of an upstairs brain. A short lecture about how we're supposed to be working is nothing in comparison.

I lead the way to the kitchen – don't need a brain for that, just a nose. It seems to be baking day, or whatever the hell it's called. The air smells of flour and butter and sugar, reminding me that I haven't eaten in a while. My stomach is already rumbling in anticipation.

Sam's no help when we finally get downstairs.

When I want him to let me check him for injuries he makes the eyes at me until I feel guilty about forcing him to do something that's freaking _good for him_. When hospital nurses want to inject him with a painkiller he makes the eyes at them and they back off, leaving me to deal with a cranky and hurting little brother. But when there's a cook and two kitchen maids just waiting to give us scones fresh from the oven? _Then _Sam sidles off into a corner and expects me to do the talking.

Freaking _moron_.

But I'm not too dusty either. The cook is elderly and prim. When I turn on the Dean Winchester charm she sniffs disapprovingly and turns her back on me. The maids, on the other hand, are young, eager, and gullible. I _almost_ feel bad – but the basket of buns, teacakes and muffins that I find myself holding makes the guilt go away _very_ quickly.

"C'mon," I say, nudging Sam with my elbow. "Useless little idiot. We would've had twice as much if you'd pulled your weight. If you were going to be this helpful, you might as well have stayed in the library and done some research."

"Exactly my point."

I sigh, following Sam as he heads for the stairs.

Halfway there, he almost bumps into a man. He draws back quickly, apologizing and introducing himself as "Inspector Winchester".

"Holmes," the man says in response. "Sherlock Holmes at your service. I just came down from London. I had urgent business there. I thought it would detain me for some time, but it resolved itself fairly quickly and I was able to join my friend Dr Watson. You must have met him by now."

"Yes, of course," Sam says, lying without a blush. "I wish you had visited us at a better time. The countryside is in uproar."

I peer over Sam's shoulder to get a better look. After the surprises in Austen-land, I'm expecting… I don't know what I'm expecting. Maybe a short, fat, bald man wearing eyeglasses. Instead…

Well, for one thing, he really _does _look kind of like a cross between Jeremy Brett and Robert Downey Junior. (I know. I wouldn't have thought it was possible either. But I'm _seeing_ him, and he _does_.)

For another… He looks _good_. Not as good as Dean Winchester, of course, but he'll clearly have an easy time with the ladies. He's tall (shorter than Sam, but then I've seen giant redwoods that were shorter than Sam), well-built, and clearly strong as well.

He tips his hat and walks past us. I wait for Sam to move, but he seems to have frozen in his tracks.

"Dude, what?" I ask.

"He's not supposed to be here," Sam says in a strangled whisper.

"Yeah, I know. I was listening. He said he had business in London but –"

"_Damn it, Dean!_" Sam looks like he's inches away from having a full-blown panic attack. "The book. It's supposed to follow the damn book. He's not supposed to be here. He's supposed to be in London."

Oh.

"How?" I ask.

Sam shakes his head. "Someone must be interfering. Maybe the witch – maybe someone else. This means we can't count on anything behaving like it should or sticking to the plot anymore."

There's a moment's silence while we both absorb the ramifications of that statement.

Then we say together, "Library!"

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><p>What did you think? Good? Bad? Please review!<p> 


	9. And Upon this Charge

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

**Author's Note: **Happy 2012, everyone! (And to kick the year off to a brilliant start – who else is thrilled with the CHCH promo?)

Thanks to Cheryl and SandyDee84, as always. And to nupinoop296, CeCe Away, Victorian Secret, SandyDee84, Kailene, BranchSuper, Whateva876, Eavis, SylverSpyder, Tendencia, SPN Mum, giacinta, Scribble2Much, BerrySPNFMA and Kirabaros.

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><p><strong>Chapter VIII: And Upon This Charge<strong>

Sam's all for ignoring the food and going through the books, but a body that size can't run on air. I tell him so. He rolls his eyes and looks like he's about to start listing all the reasons big brothers are dumb. That could take a while, so I tell him I'll stipulate to it if he eats.

Guess who wins the argument? (Hint: Dean Winchester is awesome.)

Once Sam's eaten enough to satisfy me, we get back to the search.

"We don't have much time," Sam says. "Or – maybe we do. I don't know. There's no telling. We can't be here when the story ends."

"But if it's changing –"

"It's still a book." Sam drags an armchair over to the shelf to look at the rows that are above even his head. "It's a murder mystery. It ends when Holmes announces who did it. Since he's come down here already, that might happen sooner than expected."

"Still take him at least a couple of days, though, right?"

"I suppose so."

"Then we have _some _time."

"Yes, but – Dean, we have _nothing_. If we don't find something here, I have no idea where we can go. There's nobody who can help us."

"We'll think of something," I say, because I won't let myself consider the alternative.

* * *

><p>Hours later, it's dark, we've looked at every freaking book in the entire freaking library, and we've found nothing. Freaking <em>nothing<em>. I'm seriously starting to think we might get stuck here.

I look at Sammy. He's moving away from the last of his rows, walking to the window, and dropping himself into a chair with a sigh that has a lot more despair than I like hearing from my little brother. I go to him, let my hand rest on his head, and say, as confidently as I can, "You know we're going to get out of this, Sam."

Sam doesn't say anything. He leans in closer to me, fingers coming up to curl in my jacket, and… I'm a little worried. It's not like him to be this clingy unless he's hurt or sick or angsting about something.

"You OK, kiddo?"

Sam shakes his head. I'm about to probe further, but movement from outside catches my eye. I turn to the window.

There's movement on the moors. A man and a pack of dogs chasing a girl – a teenager. She's obviously tiring: she keeps looking back over her shoulder at them, tripping and stumbling over her dress.

"Sam." I shake him. "Sam, we have to help her."

Sam looks up. To my surprise, he doesn't leap straight to his feet and grab his gun. He just sighs and leans more heavily on me, looking as sad and compassionate as a freaking hippie. But that's it.

"Sam," I say, giving him a harder shake. "What the hell? We have to help her."

"She's a ghost." The girl's staggering now, bent almost double with the effort of running. Sam turns away from the window, rests his head on my ribs. "They both are. It happened – I don't know. More than two hundred years ago, anyway. It's over. She's dead. He's dead."

"She's a – wait, this is supposed to be purely a mystery, right? Nothing supernatural. So how can she be a _ghost_?"

"Conan Doyle might've been a hunter. Maybe he believed it – maybe he _meant _it. I don't know, Dean. Maybe the witch has done something to push us into what the writer was _thinking _instead of just what he _wrote_."

"So if the ghosts are real –"

"Then the dog's a hellhound."

"Sam –"

"_No._"

"But –"

"Dean, you _promised_. This is a book – and my guess is that even if someone _is _interfering, they can't make it go too far from the writer's intent. Holmes came here, didn't he? Just sooner than expected. And whether Conan Doyle believed in ghosts or not, he didn't write books that ended in tragedy for everyone. Holmes always solves the case."

The noise from outside intensifies. I turn to look; Sam, who evidently knows what's coming, shuts his eyes.

The girl staggers – again – trips on something, probably the edge of that highly impractical dress she's wearing, and falls. She doesn't get up. Out of nowhere, a big, _glowing_ dog appears. Even from here I can see its eyes: red and huge and terrifying. It sniffs at her and then steps over her body.

"Sam?"

"Dead of exhaustion," Sam says, still not looking.

Dead of _exhaustion_? Not that I haven't heard of it happening… But that has to be one of the _worst_ possible ways to go. I squeeze Sam's shoulder, watching as the glowing dog lunges for the man on the horse. And, yeah, the guy _was _a dick, but _nobody _deserves to have their throat ripped out like that.

"Sam," I say, "we _have _to kill it. We are _not_ letting that thing roam loose."

"Fine," Sam says, and I barely have half a second to be astonished that it was so easy before he continues, "I'll do it, then. You stay here."

"Excuse me?" I sputter.

"_I _will hunt down the dog. _You _stay here and keep searching. One of us needs to stay on the book."

"Sam, do I look like an idiot to you?"

"Dean, I _can't_." Sam draws back and stands up, making sure I'm aware of every last one of those extra inches he has. "I can't watch you – _again_ – not going in blind without even knowing if there's something we can do to it. If it – God, Dean, if it _hurts_ you –"

"We're not carrying injuries out of these worlds, Sam."

"But we don't know what's changed now! And we haven't been ripped to pieces by dogs in any world yet."

"Yeah, and that's all the more reason why I'm not letting you go alone."

Sam tries a different tack. "Dean, someone needs to stay here and do the research. And I can take the dog. I have a plan."

"So _you_ go chase the fugly and _I _sit here looking at books? Not how we usually do things, is it, Sammy?"

"Dean, _please_," Sam begs. "Don't ask me to watch you face off with a Hellhound. Either we leave it alone, or I go after it, but I can't – _please_."

How does Sam manage to loom over me one minute and pull that heartbreaking little kid thing the next? And _how_, despite having had it done to me a zillion times over the years, despite the fact that I _know_ Sam's faking it to get his way, do I wind up giving in?

"Fine," I say, sighing and scowling. "I'll stay here. You deal with it."

"_Thank you._"

"Don't thank me. I don't like this at _all_, Sammy. You be careful."

"I will."

"If I think you're in trouble then I'm coming in after you. No discussion."

"Yes, Dean."

* * *

><p>Sam's been gone for all of fifteen minutes and already I can't sit still. I've paced up and down the library a few times, looked at the titles of the books on Sam's side in case he missed something (I know, I know, but <em>still<em>) and I finally decide to go downstairs. Downstairs is still keeping my promise, right? I'm not going _after_ Sam or anything. I'm just going to another floor.

I go down, and what I _really_ want is to find some nice secluded corner of the park so I can sit and think up an excuse to go after Sam. (Because, really, what was I _thinking_ letting him go off by himself? I must be getting senile.) Except, of course, someone accosts me before I can sneak outside.

It's Holmes.

_Damn it._ Sam would've known what small talk to make. All I know about Sherlock Holmes is what I saw on TV, and I don't think saying, "Elementary, my dear Watson," is going to cut it here.

"Good evening," he says politely, touching his hat.

I nod. Normally I'd've had a _wicked_ time exchanging notes with Sherlock Holmes – I mean, this dude can straighten a bent poker with his _hands_ – but of _course_ my idiot brother had to pick _now_ to chase a hellhound alone and leave me unable to think of anything but _Is Sam safe?_ and _How the hell did people ever manage to keep an eye on their baby brothers before cell phones were invented?_

"You seem worried," he offers.

I know what to say to _that_, because _that_ is a comment I've heard more times than I can count. The first time was in sixth grade, when Sam was _very_ sick with the flu and I had to leave him home alone because if I'd missed any _more _days the authorities would have called Dad and then called CPS when they discovered Dad was in another state. The last time was – well, the last time was when Elizabeth Bennett fortunately did _not_ laugh at me for being anxious about Megatron.

"I have a lot on my mind."

"Your friend?" Holmes asks. I stare at him, and he shrugs. "I saw you watching him. You were anxious about him: that much was clear. And unusual, given his remarkable size… and strength, I would presume. _You_ are older than he is. I noticed how he tended to look to you – often – as though your presence was reassuring to him. A close childhood friend? Or perhaps a brother?"

"My brother."

"Your younger brother. And you are here, alone, worrying. That must mean he is somewhere without you and you think he might be in danger. But your brother is strong, and armed, so your fear cannot be that he will come across the escaped convict. Do you believe in the legend of the hound?"

"Yes," I say, because why would I even _try_ to conceal the truth from Sherlock Holmes? "My brother's gone after it, like the moron he is, and I'm _sure _he's going to end up in trouble, but I promised I wouldn't go after him unless there was a sign that he needed help."

"Why?"

"I don't know!" I say defensively. "There was an incident with some dogs a few years ago, and I got hurt, and it bothers him if he sees me anywhere _near_ a dog."

"Fine. Come with me."

"_What?_"

"You promised your brother that you would stay away unless there was a sign that he needed help. So… _I_ am giving you that sign. He needs help. I maintain agnosticism about whether the dog is a hound of hell or not, but there is certainly a very dangerous person out on the moors tonight – no, I don't mean Selden. Selden is a murderer, and your brother _knows_ it and will be on his guard. The hidden threat is the greater one."

"Yeah… Yeah. Sam can be too trusting."

"Come with me."

* * *

><p>I have to say – tracking with Holmes is <em>fun<em>. Not as much fun as tracking with Sam, but fun. He has a keen eye and he's smart and he knows a _lot_.

Oh.

Wow. I didn't realize till now that England two hundred years ago was full of people like Sammy.

Sam, freaking giant that he is, apparently leaves footprints that are easily distinguishable from the footprints of normal-sized people. Holmes has no trouble following them through the park and out onto the moors. Just as we pass the park gates, he tells me it looks like my brother started running.

God, _no_.

There are two problems I have with Sam running: one, freakishly tall body means freakishly long legs which means we might _never_ catch up with him; two, either he was chasing something or something was chasing him. Neither possibility makes me happy.

"Nothing to worry about," Holmes says, like he just read my mind. We've been running flat out in an attempt to catch up with the Abominable Snowman, and the guy's not even _winded_. And Sam always claims he was perpetually stoned! Whatever he was on, I want some of it. "We _will_ find your brother before anything can happen to him."

"And the dog?"

"I have that problem in hand," Holmes says grimly.

Something in his voice makes me turn and look at him. I don't stop running – we can't _afford_ to stop running, or even to slow down, not while Sam's still chasing or being chased by one of those dogs. It was bad enough having them attack me. There's no _way_ I'm going to stand by while they get their fangs on Sammy.

I must be channelling Sam, because all of a sudden I know what Holmes isn't saying.

"You're a hunter." Holmes says nothing, but his grim smile is confirmation. "Do you have something that'll work on hellhounds?"

He reaches into his overcoat to pull out a small revolver. "These bullets are made of iron chased with silver and stuffed with salt and mistletoe. They were dipped in sanctified water from a spring in the Holy Land, blessed by one of the few remaining druidic practitioners in the world, and forged according to ancient Egyptian rites in the shadow of the Great Pyramid. They will kill the hounds of hell."

"Wow," I say, because I can't help it. Then I add, "I'm sure Sam will want to discuss those rituals with you."

"It will be a pleasure."

Then we both shut up, because we hear a noise ahead. It sounds like a dog.

There's also a choked gasp that sounds like Sam.

I'm about to put on a burst of speed, but Holmes grabs my arm. "Quietly," he hisses. "And carefully. You are no good to your brother, dead. The ground is treacherous – have you forgotten that we are on a marsh? Follow me."

"You know how to find your way through quicksand?" I ask, more to make conversation than because I really think he might not. The guy's a bigger geek than Sam.

"An elementary but useful skill. Not difficult at all, if you learn to pay attention to where you put your feet." He bends, picks up a pebble, and throws it a few feet. It lands with a soft squelch and trembles for a moment before sinking into the earth. "You see? Now follow me, and be careful."

I do as he says, although I can hear the dog growling more clearly now and it's taking every bit of self-control I have not to run.

Eventually – it feels like hours, although the sun has barely moved – we come to more solid ground and a copse of beech trees. Through the trunks I can see Sam. He's got his gun out and is pointing it at the dog. I'd expect the dog to ignore the gun and go straight for Sam – that's what a hellhound would normally do – but it's staying back. It's lunging and snapping now and then but not going for the jugular.

I'm sure there's a reason, but why the hell should I waste time trying to figure it out? What's the point of having Sam Winchester and Sherlock Holmes around if I have to figure things out myself?

Holmes is hesitating.

"_What?_" I hiss at him. "Shoot it!"

"It's too close to your brother. I don't want to hit him."

I'm about to tell Holmes to take the bloody shot, but then I see how dangerous it really is. From where we're standing, if Holmes misses the dog by even a fraction of an inch, the bullet will go straight into Sam. And I know there's only one person I'd trust to make that neat a shot when Sam's safety is involved.

"Give it to me," I say. Holmes raises an eyebrow. "_Give it to me._ I don't miss when my brother's in danger."

Silently, Holmes passes me the gun. I raise it to shoulder height, take a moment to steady myself –

The report is deafeningly loud, and there's a blinding flash. For a moment I can't see anything and my head is full of blinding terror and _Please let me not have hit Sammy please let me not have hit Sammy_ –

"Dean?"

"_Sam!_" I lunge through the trees, quicksand be damned, and grab Sam's shoulders. "You _idiot_. _This_ was your plan?"

* * *

><p>"What <em>was<em> your plan?" I ask for what seems like the hundredth time.

Sam shrugs, cradling his left arm in his right hand, and doesn't answer. I look at Holmes, who meets my eyes with an expression that says all too clearly, 'He's _your_ brother. _You _deal with it.'

"Is there somewhere we can go to patch Sam up?" I ask.

"Stapleton's house," Holmes offers. Sam looks startled, and Holmes cocks his head in what I'm guessing is his equivalent of a shrug. "I know, but only Beryl Stapleton will be there now, and she'll certainly be willing to let us stay there while… your brother takes care of you. I don't see why we can't go there."

"Fine," I say, before Sam can object. "Stapleton's house it is."

It isn't far to Stapleton's house – and, from everything I've seen in movies, I'm expecting something with a shingled roof and honeysuckle climbing up the walls, some ivy, maybe with three bears and a blond girl looking out the upstairs windows.

Instead, we get a large but ramshackle building that looks like it'll fall down in a strong wind.

The woman who opens the door to us – Miss Stapleton, she introduces herself – is _very _pretty but seems very shy. She smiles nervously, says of _course_ we can come in and of _course_ she'll be happy to lend us bandages for Sam's arm, and retreats inside, leaving the three of us in the sitting-room. I push Sam into the least dusty of the chairs.

Sam leans against me, half-closing his eyes.

"Tired, kiddo?" I ask.

"Mmmph," Sam mumbles. Then, drowsily, "Read to me, Dean."

I open my mouth, about to point out that _that_ was exactly how we got into this freaking mess in the first place, _moron_, when I realize what Sam's saying.

"You want me to read to you?"

"Yeah."

"Which book?"

Sam points to a stack of books lying on the sideboard. "There. Third from the bottom."

"Sure?"

"Yes, Dean." He says it the way other people would say, "_Yes, Mom_," and it's so silly, so _Sammy_, that I can't help laughing as I pick up the book.

"I have an older brother," Holmes says unexpectedly.

Sam nodded. "Mycroft Holmes. I know."

"I don't believe he ever read to me, even when I was a child – except for one occasion on which I had the measles. A most inconvenient illness, the measles. Mycroft believed in encouraging my mind to develop. He thought reading to me would discourage me from learning to read on my own."

I sense a reproof in that. But even if reading the book _weren't_ our ticket out of here, I wouldn't care. Mycroft Holmes might be awesome at encouraging eccentric geniuses, but he clearly doesn't grasp the concept of being a big brother.

"Sam's mind is plenty developed," I say, going back to Sam. "_Too_ developed, if you ask me. Anywhere specific, kiddo?"

"Chapter Four."

I find the page and read.

"_When she opened her eyes in the morning it was because a young housemaid had come into her room_…"

* * *

><p>What did you think? Good? Bad? Please review!<p> 


	10. How Does Your Garden Grow?

**Author's Note: **Sorry. This took longer than expected. I got crazily busy.

But, on the plus side, I should be free for the next couple of weeks, so posts will be going up regularly. ;-)

Anyone who's following _Our Echoes Roll_, that will start up again over the weekend. I do plan to tag _Adventures in Babysitting_, but it might take a couple of days to get to it.

So, two questions: Who else _loved _Stephen Fry as Mycroft Holmes in the new movie? And who else is hoping that this week's _Supernatural _episode turns out a lot better than last week's?

Many thanks to everyone who reviewed: criminally charmed, SandyDee84, StarKid McFly, sammynanci, shelleluver, sandycub, Whateva876, Sam, SPN Mum, Tendencia, PutMoneyInThyPurse, giacinta, BerrySPNFMA, CeCe Away, Kirabaros, scootersmom, doyleshuny, BranchSuper and Eavis.

Thanks to Cheryl and SandyDee84, for all the help!

To be honest, this chapter bugged me a bit. Once I started, I realized how hard it was to put the boys in this story.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter IX: How Does Your Garden Grow?<strong>

I take a minute to look around. We're at the end of a huge but dingy hallway. There's a window next to us; the curtains are drawn back, giving us a clear view of the night sky. There's something swooping around outside – owls, maybe, or bats. Whatever they are, they're creepy. This whole place is creepy.

There are doors lining the hallway on either side, but I don't particularly want to open them. I wouldn't be surprised if Frankenstein's monster were lurking behind one of them. The air smells of cobwebs and dust and other things that even _I_ don't particularly want to think about. There's a storm brewing: I can hear the wind howling like a pissed-off banshee who's just been introduced to the business end of a hunter's rifle.

Worst of all, we're both wearing nightgowns. And not those Greek nightgowns that at least had the advantage of having been worn by a lot of totally badass soldiers, but the kind of nightgowns you see in old movies where dudes wearing them are marching up and down staircases with candles that are a freaking fire hazard.

Not PJs. _Nightgowns._

I'm about to tell Sam he's an idiot and this is all his fault when a door just behind him opens. A girl in a dress and apron bustles out. She looks about sixteen, and happier than any sane person should be _able_ to look in this miserable rathole and this horrible weather.

She bobs a curtsey, giving me a prim nod and Sam a warm, motherly smile that is positively creepy – I mean, the girl looks _sixteen_! How the hell does Sam get girls twelve years younger than he is to want to mother him?

"Tha'll want to go t'bed," She tells the kid. "Tha shouldn't be about so late. It'll do thee good to sleep." She turns to me. "Tha won't look so sour, neither," she adds. Then, laughing at my expression, she pulls the door shut behind her.

Bloody English country houses with their bloody echoing corridors and their bloody cheerful chambermaids.

"_The Secret Garden_?" I hiss at Sam as the girl flounces off down the corridor.

"Dean –"

"Are you out of your mind? You thought the way out was to jump into a wimpy children's story?"

"It was the only –"

"And anyway, was it written before _The Hound of the Baskervilles_? How did you know it would work?"

"I don't know exactly when it was written, but the edition was a new one."

"You saw it from like eight feet away."

"It was the same edition you read to me!" I stare. Sam blushes and says, "Look, it's stupid, but I thought… You read it to me, you know? It's one of the things I remember from that summer in New Mexico – it was the _only_ good thing about that summer in New Mexico. I thought maybe something like that – maybe it would be our ticket out."

I obviously can't yell at the kid after that – and he _knows_ it, the little fraud – so I just shrug. "Fine. So now we figure out where we are and how to get to the library. Or is it going to be something other than a library this time, too?"

"I don't –"

Sam stops short.

I heard it, too. Someone's crying – and I don't mean those creepy, breathy little moans ghosts make, but _really_ crying.

It sounds like a kid.

Yay. The only thing that comes anywhere _near_ Sammy in the list of Things That Dean Winchester Can't Say No To is bawling children, and clearly this universe knows that.

This settles it. No more British writers. They clearly hate us. In fact, I bet we had problems with Circe only because we used some British dude's translation of the _Odyssey_. If we'd jumped straight into the Greek version we'd probably have gotten out without almost being turned into pigs. Of course, Hermes would probably have talked gibberish at us, but you can't have everything… Anyway, I'm sure Sam would have worked it out.

Next time the awesome Dean Winchester will be picking the book, and it's _not_ going to be by anyone from England. The last thing I want is to end up in Hogwarts and be eaten by a three-headed dog.

Meanwhile, Sam's already following the sound to its source. He leads us through the twisting labyrinth of passages with surprising speed – Sam's a good tracker, but _nobody _is _that _good. I have a strong suspicion that he's not following the sound at all. He probably remembers the exact location from the book, the big geek.

The Nerd of the Year stops at a heavy oak door. There's a glimmer of light shining from underneath it. We can hear someone crying on the other side. It's definitely a kid; from the sound of it, no older than twelve.

Sam looks at me. I look at him. We both know this is a bad idea. This is a _book _and it has a happy ending. We shouldn't be _interfering_ with people here. It's all going to work out for them anyway. _We_ should be looking for the library, looking for a book, and finding our way back to _normal_. And anyway, it's not like we're _abandoning_ the wailing kid. Mary Lennox must be on her way already. She'll be here in a few minutes.

But…

Left to myself I'd definitely be doing the sensible thing, but my baby brother, in addition to being Nerd of the Year, is also Pushover of the Year. And I, unfortunately, am Pushover of the Century when he makes those big eyes (it must be some sort of voodoo; no way he could overcome my iron will otherwise) and says, "_Dean_."

It has nothing to do with me wanting to help the kid. Sam's the idiot, not me.

I open the door.

The room on the other side is big – not quite as big as the rooms in Elf-land, which were huge enough to hold entire apartment blocks, but bigger than rooms usually are in buildings that aren't palaces or old manor houses. The furniture is old and smells a little ratty. In one corner is a huge four-poster bed hung with white drapes that look like they're about to start moaning and rattling chains any second. _In _the bed is a boy.

Dean Winchester, standing in the creepiest room of an old-school haunted house (that isn't haunted) in order to have a chick-flick moment with a crying boy (who isn't Sammy). The things I do for my brother…

"Who are you?" the boy asks, his voice a horrified whisper. "Are… are you _ghosts_?"

And how is that for irony?

"We're not ghosts. We're here to help you," Sam says gently.

"Who are you?"

"My name is Sam." Sam says. "This is my brother Dean."

"What are you doing here?"

"We were looking for the library," Sam says. "We lost our way. Are you all right?"

He's making huge, sympathetic eyes that say _I'm here _and _I'm listening_. It doesn't work very well on boys, even boys who can out-puppy-dog Sam at his emo best. They usually just shake their heads and wonder how Sam didn't get the eyes and the emo-ness beaten out of him in elementary school. (Yeah, I know. If the eyes don't work on boys, how the hell do they work on me? That's what you're asking, right? Well… Hard to explain. Let's just say that if the boys knew Sam for more than a day, the eyes would work on them, too.)

I lay a hand on Sam's shoulder. He gets the message and backs off.

"I'm Dean," I tell the boy. "You're Colin, right?" I wait just long enough for him to nod. "Sorry to butt in on you like this –"

"_Butt in_?" the boy asks. I just manage not to roll my eyes. Of _course_ some kid in England two hundred years ago would be puzzled by American slang.

"You know, invade your personal space in the middle of the night," I explain. Not sure they had _personal space_ then, either, but at least _that _phrase is self-explanatory. "Sam's my little brother – have you got any little brothers?"

"No," Colin says, and I nod, thankful he hasn't started screaming.

"Dude, you have _no_ idea how lucky you are. Little brothers are a _pain_. Look at Sam. He decided he needed to read _Paradise Lost_ in the middle of the night, and of course I couldn't let him wander around this place alone. He'd've gotten completely lost." Sam gives me a tight smile that says there's going to be payback for this later.

Well, bring it on, bitch. _Sam's_ the one who picked a book that led to me walking around _another_ freaking English country house in the middle of the freaking night in a freaking _nightdress_.

Fortunately, before Sam can start making a bitchface – because I definitely don't want to subject the boy to one of Sam's bitchfaces – the door opens.

It's a girl. My first thought is _freaking hell it's another little-girl ghost_, but then I realize that's stupid because there _weren't_ ghosts in the book, and I'm pretty sure that the person who came up with the plot of _The Secret Garden_ wouldn't have believed in them unless she'd actually ended up being haunted by one.

"Miss Lennox," Sam says. This one I _do_ let him handle, because Sam's always better with little girls. I expect they recognize him as one of their own.

"Is _she_ a ghost?" Colin asks. He sounds scared, and I don't blame him: the girl's pale, still just a little too unhealthily skinny for the English countryside – at least from what I've seen – and _her_ eyes are like saucers.

Great going, British writers. Dump me from a fictional world full of horrible demon dogs that want to eat my brother into a fictional world full of people who make the eyes for no bloody time I am _definitely_ picking the book.

"No, I am not." little Miss Lennox answers. "Are you one?"

Colin just stares at her, eyes getting wider and wider. I'm starting to get a bit impatient, because even _Sam_ was never this bad, when the kid _finally_ opens his mouth. "No," he mumbles. "I am Colin."

He says it as though he's saying, "I am the Pope," and I'm not surprised when the girl's next question is, "Who is Colin?"

"I am Colin Craven."

Huh. Doesn't seem to be a lot more helpful than, "I am Colin," but the girl looks like she gets it.

"Who are you?" Colin Craven asks.

"I am Mary Lennox. Mr Craven is my uncle." _Oh_, of course. Craven. The grouchy dude who owned the house.

"Mr Craven is my father," Colin says, and touching as this moment of cousinly bonding is, time's wasting and Sam and I need to get out of here.

"Listen, kids," I say, "could one of you tell us where the library is before you have the family reunion?"

Colin lies back and gapes up at me with an expression of sickly surprise – probably astonished at being asked to actually _do _something useful to humanity – and Mary just looks like she wants to smack me but doesn't dare because I'm three times as big as she is and I'm backed up by a guy who's four times as big as she is.

Yeah, I'd forgotten how annoying those kids were in the beginning of the book.

"Please," Sam says gently. "I know you have a lot to talk about. If you'll just tell us, we'll leave."

Because no human being, not even one as determined to be cranky as Mary Lennox, can resist my little brother, it isn't long before we're on our way to the library, armed with an appallingly bad map that she drew for Sam on the back of a note from the housekeeper.

"Sam," I can't help saying, "what the hell are we doing?"

"Going to the library, Dean."

"Yeah, but _why_? We've been doing this for – what is it now? Hours? Days? Freaking _weeks_? We go to a library and we find a book and we go into _another_ crazy loop."

"There's going to be a way out," Sam says quietly.

Something about his voice makes me stop and stare at him. He has that look, that look that says _I'm going to do something stupid and possibly suicidal because for some warped reason that makes no sense except in my own stupid head, I think it will be good for Dean_.

I realize that, despite the way he leaned into me for support on the walk from the marsh to Stapleton's cottage, he didn't tell me what his plan was to deal with the hellhound. He _must_ have had something in mind; Sam's not dumb, and I can't believe he went up against the thing armed with, as far as I can tell, freaking _nothing_.

He looks like he's got a plan now.

This is all adding up in my head, and the result is nothing good. I have a _strong_ feeling that this is one of Sam's I-want-to-make-sure-Dean-can't-sleep-for-a-week plans.

"_Sam_," I say warningly.

"What? I'm just saying. There's always a way out."

And with that reassuring (not!) and ultimately random pronouncement, Sam pushes open the door to the library.

* * *

><p>What did you think? Good? Bad? Please review!<p> 


	11. With Silver Bells and Cockleshells

**Disclaimer: **Nothing's mine.

**Author's Note: **The tag to _Adventures in Babysitting_ should be up in a day or two… _Time After Time After Time _will follow.

For reviews, many thanks to doyleshuny, Victorian Secret, SPN Mum, Kirabaros, nupinoop296, Whateva876, Tendencia, emebalia, sylvia37, giacinta, Katy M VT, SandyDee84, caylender and Eavis.

Thanks to Cheryl and SandyDee84 for being awesome!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter X: With Silver Bells and Cockleshells<strong>

The library is smaller than the one in Netherfield, although still big enough to hold a decent-sized apartment. Without a word, Sam and I go to opposite ends of the room and start going through the shelves. I need to check with him occasionally, when I'm not sure when a book was published; on the whole it doesn't take very long.

At the end of an hour we've covered the library pretty thoroughly and found nothing.

I'm about to suggest asking after a library in the village. I stop when I see that Sam's got his _thinking_ face on. Annoys the hell out of me, that face, but it can sometimes be useful.

"What?"

"Maybe the answer isn't a library," Sam says. "The rules are changing."

"How can it – no, come on, Sam! The rules in the books might be changing, but they're still _books_."

"Yeah, but maybe the place to _find_ them isn't going to be the most obvious one anymore. Or maybe it _will_ be the most obvious one but in a different way."

"What are you talking about?"

"The first time we found _The Odyssey_ in Elrond's library," Sam says. It says a lot about the last few – What? Days? Weeks? – that instead of checking him for possession I'm nodding as though he's actually making sense. "But we found _The Secret Garden_ in Stapleton's cottage, not in the library at Baskerville Hall. And that's the last place you'd go to look for a _book_, but for _that_ book it's the first place you'd go."

"What?" I prompt when he trails off.

Sam bitchfaces. (Yeah, I know that isn't a real word. But there _isn't _a real word that can describe the face Sam makes when I do something he doesn't like.)

"It's a murder mystery," Sam murmurs, so softly that I have to strain to hear him. "_The Hound of the Baskervilles _is a murder mystery and Stapleton's the killer. He's the answer to the riddle."

It dawns on me what Sam's saying. "So the answer to _this _riddle is the actual secret garden?"

Sam nods. "Let's go."

"Now? It's the middle of the night."

"You want to hang around here till morning?"

"There might be… _things_," I mutter. Sam raises an eyebrow and I elaborate. "You know, gerbils… rats… scorpions…"

"Scorpions? _Here?_ Come _on_, Dean."

"Why the hell not? Mary Lennox came here from India, didn't she? Maybe she imported some."

"You really think an orphaned girl would've been smuggling in deadly insects?"

"Wouldn't have been smuggling, Sammy. They probably don't have anti-scorpion laws in _this _time."

"We don't have anti-scorpion laws in our time, Dean. We have customs regulations and –"

"Whatever, geek. Can we just wait?"

"Why?"

"Because I want to talk to you!" I burst out.

As soon as the words are out, I realize that they're true. I _do _want to talk to Sammy. This is getting weirder by the minute – and it takes a lot for me to call something weird. To make matters more complicated, I have a feeling Sam guesses more about our situation than he's telling me.

"What was the deal with that dog?" I demand, before he can say anything. "Back in Sherlock Holmes? It was a – well, I don't know what it was, it was some sort of monster mutt and you went after it with no plan! If I hadn't shown up when I did, I bet you would've tried to put a collar on it and started calling it Rover. I may not be the world's biggest nerd but I'm not stupid –"

"I never said you were!"

"Then stop treating me like I am!"

"_Dean._" Sam protests. It's only then that I realize that I have my face right up in his, my fists bunched in his – please kill me now – _nightgown_. I shove him back, ignoring the sound of his head hitting wood panelling. "Dean!"

He turns on the _look_. The _My big brother just deliberately hurt me and I don't know why _look. It's ridiculous – I mean, there's no way I actually did him any damage – but it makes me feel guilty. And that makes me angrier, and there is something _very _messed up here because it doesn't work like this. When I'm mad at Sam, I'm mad at him, and when it's over I feel bad about whatever it was I said and I find a way to let him know. That's the way it works; that's the way it's worked for _years_.

But _this_? This mixture of guilt and frustration, wanting to thump Sam on the back and smack him upside the head at the same time?

Something's wrong.

Maybe Sam's right. Maybe there really is no time to waste.

But as soon as we're out of here, I'm getting an answer from him.

"Fine," I say. "Fine, but I am _not_ going outdoors like this. We need to find some normal clothes – or whatever passes for normal in this place. With my luck we'll probably have to wear kilts."

"We didn't have to wear kilts when we got Crowley's bones," Sam points out. "Don't be ridiculous, Dean. As soon as we find a book we'll be somewhere else – hopefully back home – and we'll be in different clothes _anyway_. How does it matter?"

"Of course it matters, Sammy. What if the kitchen maid and the under-gardener are having at it behind a rhododendron? You really think it's appropriate for gentlemen to be seen in public like this?"

Sam glares.

An hour later, we've searched the house from attic to basement.

I swear, I will never complain about not getting old-world mansions on our cases. Old-world mansions suck! The doors have squeaky hinges, the stairs creak, the floorboards are uneven, and the carpets seem to have minds of their own. We had so many near-misses that it's not even funny. The worst was when I tripped in one of the passages upstairs (I swear the rug _deliberately_ tripped me) and the housekeeper heard the noise and came out in her dressing-gown, holding a poker in one hand and a candle in the other. If Sam hadn't grabbed me and pulled me into an alcove in time, I would have been in the middle of a miserable concussion right now.

An hour is how long it took us to find something. It looks like a bedroom and it has clothes that seem to be Sam's size – and given that Sam's, you know, _Sam_, that definitely can't be a coincidence.

I don't bother to look for my own bedroom after that. We've wasted enough time, and maybe Sam's clothes hang on me in an undignified way, but there's no way I can look stupider in them than I do in the nightgown.

When we're both changed and ready we go outside. I let the oversized freak take the lead, because I'm stumbling along in boots that are too big for me and the coat sleeves really _do_ cover my fingers. I knew I should've stopped buying him those high-fibre high-protein granola bars when he turned fourteen. If I'd fed him like a normal person he might _be_ a normal person.

As we slip out, I sneak a glance up at where I think the window of Colin's room should be. There's no light in it, so presumably the family reunion is over. Just as well. They'll do much better at school tomorrow if they get their rest.

"They don't go to school, Dean," Sam says, and I realize I said that last part out loud.

"No wonder they didn't know who we were. Right, so how do we find this garden of yours?"

"It's not _my_ garden – never mind. I don't know exactly where it is, but it can't be far. Let's just walk around."

"Great," I grumble. "Wandering around the great English outdoors in the middle of the night. I just _know_ we're going to get in trouble. You'll probably fall off a cliff."

"Shut up, Dean," Sam says, leading the way down the garden path. "We're going to be fine."

"All I'm saying is that if you fall off a cliff, don't expect me to come rappelling down after you. I will leave your ass right here in Lennox-land forever."

"Sure you will."

"You bet I will!" I give Sam a light shove. He barely even reacts, the freaking giant. "Then I might actually be able to eat dinner without having you lecture me about polyunsaturated fats."

"If you'd eaten healthy food as a teenager, you wouldn't be short."

"If you'd eaten _normal_ food as a teenager, you wouldn't be the size of the Empire State Building and we wouldn't have to go on a freaking _quest_ every time you need a new jacket."

"Shut up, Dean."

"Nice comeback. You think –"

Sam's raised hand stops me short.

There's a brief pause, and then I hear it too – hurried footsteps coming up the path towards us.

"What the hell?" I hiss. "It's the middle of the night! Doesn't anyone freaking _sleep_ around here?"

"You probably rubbed off on them," Sam mutters. "C'mon, let's get out of the way. If we stay in the shadows he won't see us."

We scramble under the cover of the trees – just in time, because a second after we hit the ground a man emerges from the shrubbery on the other side of the path.

He has a slavering dog on a leash.

I don't know if it's my imagination, but that dog looks _scarily_ like the hound that almost ate Sam near Baskerville Hall.

Sam draws in a sharp breath.

So _not _my imagination.

"Dean…" he murmurs.

"It's the same dog," I murmur back. "It _can't_ be the same dog, Sam. There's not supposed to be a hellhound _here_."

"I know."

"Do you have a Plan B, genius?"

Sam frowns and opens his mouth.

The dog turns sharply in our direction and begins to growl and strain at the leash. The man holding the leash pulls a shotgun out of his pocket.

"_Run!_" I yell.

Sam and I shoot out of cover and run away from the house. It's not hard to outpace the guy. He fires after us, but he has a hundred-year-old gun (well, it's new _now_, but you know what I mean) and it's not meant to be fired while running. The shots don't come anywhere near us.

Sam, with those long legs of his, is a little ahead of me. He's heading for some kind of ivy-covered boundary wall. I squint at it – Sam can get over it, no problem, and it has enough handholds that I should be able to get over it, too. The guy chasing us, who's _short_, will have to find a way around.

It'll buy us some more time.

I'm so busy looking at the wall and calculating just where I need to grab the ivy to vault over that I don't see the loose stones on the ground until it's too late.

My foot skids out from under me and I go crashing down.

Sam stops short and comes back to help me up. My ankle twinges when I try to put weight on it – it's sprained, I think, not broken.

"Come _on_," Sam grunts, glancing back. The guy – and his dog – are closing in. (I'm amazed he hasn't let the dog _off_ the leash – no way we could've outrun it – but I'm not going to ask too many questions. Yet.)

I let Sam half-drag, half-carry me towards the wall.

I grab the nearest vine that looks thick enough to hold me. Sam pushes me up (he does _not_ give me a _boost_) and I manage to grab the top of the wall. I hoist myself the rest of the way up.

"Come on, Sam, let's go."

Sam jumps, fingers snagging the top of the wall, and starts to hoist himself up.

There's a gunshot.

Sam flinches and falls.

"Sam!" I yell. "Sam, no, come on!" There's a red stain spreading on the shoulder of his shirt, dangerously low. I'm sure my heart's stopped beating.

I'm about to jump down.

"Dean, _no_," Sam says, sounding strangled. "It'll tear us apart. Just –" He gets to his feet, clutching the wall for support. It takes agonizing seconds. "Pull me up."

He reaches up – I don't know how he's even _standing_, hurt that badly – and oh thank _God_ he's the size he is, because even with him hunched over from pain and unable to lift his arms all the way, he's tall enough that I can reach down and grab him.

He's heavy, but I pull with all my strength, and his feet are off the ground just as the dog leaps.

Sam helps as much as he can – which isn't much, but enough to keep him from getting turned into kibble. I manage to haul him up, and he's fading, and I really should get him down slowly and gently, but we don't have time.

I help him get those colt legs over the wall and try to lower him carefully to the other side. All I manage to do is keep him from falling too fast – I _hope _I've kept him from falling too fast.

Sam collapses to his knees.

I jump down, jarring my ankle again. If it wasn't sprained before, it is now.

But there's no time to worry about that. Sam's shivering, starting to go into shock. We have to go – the guy with the dog is probably on his way right now; _he _probably knows where the door is – but I take a minute to rub Sam's back anyway.

"You OK, kiddo? Come on – let's just get out of here, and then I'll take care of you."

Sam shakes his head. Then he mumbles something I can't hear.

"What, Sammy?"

"The _garden_," Sam mutters. "We're in the garden. The book – it has to be here."

"The – oh." I look around, noticing what I didn't earlier because all my attention was focused on Sammy. We're in a large, enclosed space full of plants that are running wild – and have been for years, if I'm any judge. There are roses and violets and a lot of other things I can't identify.

And – there's a book. Right in the middle, sitting there in the wet grass like someone was reading and forgot to take it back indoors with them.

I hear a bark and look around. There's a door not too far from us – and now there's a man's voice, too. Looks like Shotgun and his mutt have shown up.

I run for the book.

As soon as I've picked it up, I want to kill something.

If Sam weren't hurt, if he weren't _bleeding out_ on me, if there weren't a lunatic with a gun rattling a key in the lock, I would've tossed that book straight on the nearest bonfire and found something else. But – well, it's not like I have a lot of options right now.

I go back to Sam and tug him into my arms. He settles down willingly. We need to get out of here – and then I'll take care of him.

"Ready, Sammy?"

Sam nods against my shoulder.

I open the book.

"_Professor Trelawney pulled her shawls tight about her with slightly trembling hands…_"

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><p>What did you think? Good? Bad? Please review!<p> 


	12. To Educate Young Sorcerers

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

**Author's Note: **I really, _really_ didn't plan Harry Potter… But sometimes things just happen.

Also, any fellow-geeks paying attention in this chapter will know what the boys' way out is going to be. ;-)

For reviews, my thanks to SandyDee84, BerrySPNFMA, criminally charmed, captainbartholomew, shelleluver, tiffaroolou, Victorian Secret, Kathryn Marie Black, agent iz hyper, Whateva876, SPN Mum, CeCe Away, scootersmom, twohisglory2002, Eavis, Tendencia, hotshow, giacinta, doyleshuny, Kirabaros, caylender, BranchSuper and sammynanci.

Thanks to SandyDee84 for help with ideas and Cheryl for _very _patiently reading all my work.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter XI: To Educate Young Sorcerers<strong>

When the light fades, Sam and I are sitting on a stone floor. We're next to a flight of wooden steps leading to a trapdoor. There's a corridor leading away into darkness.

"Sammy?" I ask.

"I'm OK," Sam says, and I let out the breath I was holding. Flinging ourselves into another book resolved injuries before, but I didn't dare hope that our luck would hold and it would last.

Sam pushes himself out of my arms and gets to his feet.

"Seriously, dude, _Hogwarts_?" He demands. The he notices me staring at him. "What?"

"Your – your _clothes_," I say. I don't laugh, because I'm an awesome brother. "This is worse than the nightgowns."

Sam looks down at himself. He's wearing – God, I don't believe this – he's wearing long purple robes with stars and planets embroidered in gold around the edges. And boots. Not, you know, normal boots like _men_ wear, but high-heeled boots, in purple to match his robes. They have gold buckles.

Sam's a girl. And a _hippie _girl at that.

Sam shrugs. "Wizard's robes. Not like yours are any manlier."

I stand up and look at myself. My robes are… scarlet. Seriously. Scarlet.

They're scarlet and they go nearly to my ankles and I'm wearing a matching _cloak_.

This is _definitely_ worse than the nightgowns.

"Please just kill me now," I say.

Sam shakes his head. "Come on, Dean. Let's go." He indicates the trapdoor.

"Wait – Sam." I grab his sleeve. "We're not going anywhere until you explain. What the hell is going on? What's your plan? And what _is _it with you and that dog?"

"_Now?_"

"_Sam._"

Sam heaves a sigh and follows it with the most put-upon bitchface he has in his extensive repertoire. "_Fine_. I think the dog's the answer to getting out of here. It's – well, it's Conan Doyle's version of a Hellhound. I thought…" He trails off. "When I went after it near Baskerville Hall, I thought if I let it – you know, _get me_ – I might be able to figure out a way out for us."

His voice has grown steadily smaller, and _us_ comes out in a tiny squeak. I very nearly hit him.

"Are – you – _insane_?" I hiss. "You were going to let a Hellhound _get _you?"

"The injuries wouldn't have stayed, Dean. Worst case, the dog was part of the book. Everything would probably have healed when we'd stepped out of it – like they did now, you know."

"_Everything would probably have healed?_ Sam, for a smart guy, you're…" I sigh. "And you didn't do this stupid thing in _The Secret Garden _why? Not that I'm complaining. I just need to know how to get sense into your head if you start this again."

"I won't. The dog didn't belong in _The Secret Garden_ so I didn't know if the rules would hold."

"And why the hell would you think a Hellhound is the answer anyway? As opposed to going to Mount Doom or staying with Circe or doing any of the other things that _wouldn't_ have left me with a severely injured brother who might or might not get fixed up as good as new?"

"Because that was the first time something happened that was completely unrelated to the story. The dog wasn't a Hellhound in the book. The legend was a legend and the dog was just a dog."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Sam's eyes are big and wet. "Dean – you and the Hellhound – I _couldn't_. I couldn't take the risk with – with you."

"So you forced me to take it with _you _without even _telling _me about it?" I grab the front of his robes and give him a rough shake. "Are you out of your freaking _mind_, Sam? What do you think I would've done if –" I break off, letting _if you hadn't come back to me_ go unsaid.

"I'm sorry," Sam repeats quietly. "It was stupid, Dean. I shouldn't have done it."

He sounds so defeated, the look in his eyes so vulnerable, that I really don't have the heart to stay mad at him. "C'mon, Sammy," I say, thumping his shoulder. "Let's see what's on the other side of that trapdoor."

I briefly consider whether to lead the way up or let Sam do it. On the one hand, some of those steps look a little rickety, and I'd rather test them. On the other, ever since Sam turned into He-Man it's quite possible that a step would hold under my weight but splinter under his, and if he _does_ fall and I've gone first, I won't be able to catch him.

Finally I gesture to him to go up ahead of me. Sam cuts me a look, but he does it.

He doesn't stumble, and a couple of minutes later we're coming out into a room that looks like Fraud Psychic Heaven. The first thing I register is that everything seems to be _glittering_ – sparkly medallions hanging on the walls, sparkly crystal balls lined up on a table off to one side, and about five hundred sparkly necklaces on the woman standing in the centre of the room staring at us like we're a pair of escaped convicts.

Which, in this world, we might well be.

The woman with the sparkly necklaces raises her head to look at us. She's wearing huge, round glasses that magnify her eyes alarmingly. I feel Sam press against me. (Figures, doesn't it? My action hero brother can face down ghosts, monsters, demons and Archangels without even flinching, but show him a schoolteacher and he freaks out.)

I can't rub his back, not with everyone watching, so I settle for not shoving him off.

"Mr. Winchester," the woman says, her voice tremulous and dramatic. "_And _Mr. Winchester. I… I wasn't told to expect you."

"Didn't the old bat _See_ that they would be here?" a voice hisses off to my left. I look for the source of it and find two kids – a redhead and a dark-haired one with glasses – sitting at a table and looking a lot less interested in their star charts than the rest of the class. It's obviously the redhead who's spoken. He's eyeing the bat – um, the _professor_ – with a frown.

The dark-haired kid mutters something inaudible in response.

Before I can hear anymore, the schoolteacher glides towards us. Sam tries to get even closer to me, which he _can't_, because even in Hogwarts I don't think you can break the laws of physics _that _much. I'm about to say something to him, but the witch gets there first. She grabs his hand, turns it palm-up, and studies it intently.

"I See danger in your future," she says. I can't suppress a small snicker; anyone who knows Sam at all can usually see danger in his future without having to look at his hand. She looks up, glares at me, and then goes back to studying Sam's palm. "Oh, my _dear _boy… You will be betrayed by one you trust. And your suffering will be – _severe_."

Sam flinches at the force of the last word, and that's it. That is freaking _it_. Psycho fortune-teller or not, _nobody_ upsets Sammy and gets away with it.

"Do you mind?" I ask coolly, stepping between Sam and the woman. Then I pause, wondering what to say next – it's not like I have the faintest clue what I'm supposed to be doing here, after all.

As it turns out, I don't have to answer. She glares at me, then stalks away to one of the side tables and picks up a sheaf of papers. "Here. And tell Professor McGonagall that I do not want to see either of you in this room again! Your auras are so mundane that they utterly destroy the delicate psychic vibrations of my classroom."

I take the papers from her and mutter my thanks. As I'm about to shepherd Sam out of the room ahead of me, she dismisses the class, and we have two dozen kids leaving with us.

The redhead catches up to us as we go down the corridor. "Hey! I don't know – well, I've heard of you, but you don't know me. You probably know my brother, though. Bill."

I'm about to respond with _Dude, what the hell?_ but fortunately Sam gets in first. "Bill Weasley?" he asks. "Curse-breaker for Gringotts? You must be Ronald."

"Just Ron," the kid says. Then he indicates the other kid with him. "And this is –"

"I know," I say, because this I _do _know, since I haven't been stuck in Outer Mongolia for the past ten years. "Harry Potter. Not too many people who don't know you." Harry Potter smiles uncomfortably and looks away, and he reminds me so much of Sam at fifteen, all gangly and awkward and resentful of the way life was treating him, that I feel a sudden sense of déjà vu. "So you guys done with classes?"

"Harry! Ron!" I hear a girl's voice, and I turn just in time to see a _very_ pretty brunette kid come running up the passage. Fortunately, this is one underage girl who _isn't_ giving me the once-over, so there's no awkwardness.

"Hermione," Harry says, sounding a little unhappy… So this is _his_ resident nerd. "Aren't you supposed to be in Arithmancy?"

"Professor Vector let us off early. And that's excellent, isn't it? We can get a head start on our History of Magic Essays." God, no wonder Harry wasn't thrilled to see her beforetime. This girl sounds worse than Sam! "And then we'll have the whole of the evening free for Transfiguration practice. You still need to practise Vanishing mammals, and Ron…" She trails off, flushing for some reason.

"So we'll just go," I say, backing away.

She turns on me. "No – oh, no! I'm so sorry, I didn't mean – you have to stay, Mr. Winchester. And you, Sam, please." Huh. Figures Hermione Granger would be on first-name terms with Supergeek. "You promised to show us –" She looks around and lowers her voice. "To show us those counter-curses, and this is the best time. Most people are in class – oh, just the three of us! Not the whole DA, of course, and we won't tell _anyone_ where we learnt them. You can trust us. We know you don't want to cause an international incident. There's a safe place."

I take a half-step back and closer to Sam, Winchester code for _You deal with this because I don't know what the hell is going on_.

Sam nods. "Um… I have to talk to Professor McGonagall about something… important." He takes the papers from me. "But you can help them, Dean. I'll meet you in the Great Hall later."

Hermione looks a little disappointed that Sam won't be there, but Harry and Ron sound a lot more enthusiastic – they were probably having horrible visions of being lectured by both of them at once. She agrees, and after assuring them that he knows how to get to Professor McGonagall's office – he probably remembers the _way_ from the books, the freak – and giving me the silent half-nod that means _Yes, Dean, I _won't_ look at any books or chase any dogs without telling you_, he hurries away.

I follow the kids – who, even with all the boundless energy of youth, can't keep up with Stretch – through a maze of corridors and staircases until we end up standing in front of a bit of wall that looks – well, that looks like a bit of wall.

While Harry, Ron and I wait, Hermione walks up and down a couple of times, and when she finally stops, a door appears in the wall.

Appears – just _appears_. No fancy lights, no glowing words, no bricks spinning magical circles as they dissolve. It just appears like it was there all the time and I just forgot to look at it until now.

Magic is _boring_.

We go inside. The room looks – well, the only word for it is _weird_. There are piles of cushions scattered on the floor, cupboards lining the walls, and, on a bulletin board in one corner, a list headed _DUMBLEDORE'S ARMY_. Whoever wrote it had incredibly tiny, neat handwriting. I'm pretty sure it must've been Hermione.

"Well?" Hermione asks, and she's looking at me a little suspiciously as though she thinks I'm going to bite. "What do you need?"

It's a hard question, since I don't know what exactly I'm supposed to be _doing_ here. Fortunately Hermione doesn't wait for an answer. She bustles away and starts setting something up in the middle of the room. I must look as bewildered as I feel, because Harry and Ron shoot me commiserating looks.

When Hermione steps back, there's what looks like a solid gold coin resting on a cushion with a glowing bubble of – _something_ – over it.

"Just like it said in the _Prophet_," she says. "That's charmed to withstand all common spells including Summoning Charms and most counter-curses, no Dark Magic will work on it and no Muggle weapons either. I read that at the Salem Institute you teach a more advanced version, but I think this'll do to begin with." The one useful thing I get from that is _Salem Institute_; at least now I know where Sam and I are _from_… Of course, I still need to figure out what I'm supposed to do with it.

"_Well?_" Hermione prompts.

"Your wand's sticking out of your back pocket," Harry says helpfully.

My wand. Awesome. My _wand_. Now I have a wand. I'm Tinkerbell.

"You shouldn't put your wand in your back pocket. You might lose a buttock," Ron adds even more helpfully. "'S'what Moody said, anyway, and I believe him."

"Oh," I say vaguely. I take out the wand and point it at the glowing bubble, because I don't know what else to do.

I think about bursting the bubble –

To my shock, a jet of red light shoots out of the end, hits the bubble and disintegrates it instantly. A second later, the gold coin is thumping into my palm.

Harry and Ron look deeply impressed. Even Hermione's prissy expression lightens somewhat, like she thinks I might actually be someone worth talking to.

* * *

><p>An hour later, we're leaving the secret room. Ron and Harry are talking to me nonstop about how awesome my curses are, and Hermione's unbent enough to say she thinks I might make a good teacher if I ever decided I'd had enough of being an Auror (whatever the Hell that is) and then she asks me if Aurors are called Aurors in America.<p>

I tell her it's a state secret. She rolls her eyes.

I'm feeling pretty pleased with myself – doing magic is a nice rush, and I must be pretty good at it if I managed to impress the Queen of Nerds.

"Let's go to the Great Hall," Hermione says. "Sam said he'd meet us there. He promised to discuss the theory of Elemental Transfiguration with me."

Maybe I can just pretend I don't know Sam.

All the way back through the corridors, and then through a whole bunch of _new _corridors, my mind is occupied with thoughts of how to manage this without anyone realizing that I'm related to Sam.

Then we get to the Great Hall, which is really just a big dining-room, and find no Sasquatch in it.

"He's probably still with Professor McGonagall," Hermione says. "Let's start."

"No." My big brother instincts are flaring. "No. I need to find him now."

Hermione rolls her eyes again. Maybe she and Sam have secretly been corresponding on how to make bitchfaces. "I'm sure he's fine, Mr. Winchester –"

"I need to find my brother!"

Harry and Hermione look startled at the vehemence. Ron shrugs. "Fine. Let's go to McGonagall's office. I reckon he'll still be there."

Back through the old corridors and some new ones. No way I'm going to remember my way around this labyrinth, not with my designated navigator off discussing something stupid with the _teachers_. (Trust Sam to be a geek even in a school for magic.)

We finally stop outside a door. There's light spilling under it from the room beyond, although it's made of oak and too thick for sound to filter through.

Hermione knocks.

It opens – magic, probably.

Sam's there – I take a moment to feel relieved and to decide how hard I'm going to kick his ass for making me worry – standing by the window with two other people. One is a _very_ scary-looking woman who reminds me of my high school physics teacher. The other is an old man with a long white beard and white hair and _really_, do people actually _look_ like that anymore? He looks like Obi-Wan Kenobi forgot to shave, or for that matter cut his hair, for twenty years.

Then I take in Sam's expression.

My little brother looks _terrified_.

I've crossed the room before I know it, my hand going to his shoulder, dimly registering that he grabs a handful of my robes as soon as I'm within reach. If he's doing that in public, he must be even more scared than he looks.

"What did you say to him?" I growl at the other two, wrapping my arm around Sam's shoulders and squeezing lightly.

"Only the truth," the overgrown Obi-Wan says quietly. "The truth is never easy, Mr. Winchester, but I wouldn't have said anything to your brother if I hadn't believed that he could handle it."

"Handle it?" Sam's not _handling _it, he's _scared_. Scared, and evidently it's all this guy's fault. "What did you _say _to him?"

"Muggles have a saying that it's darkest before the dawn," is the response, so calm that I want to shoot him right in his face. Nobody, _nobody_, gets off with freaking Sam out enough to make him publicly clingy and then pretending that they didn't do anything. "I just pointed out to Sam that the only way out might be to abandon all hope."

I stare at him. He's _insane_, right? That's the dumbest, most meaningless piece of advice I've ever heard _ever_.

I open my mouth to say so, but something tells me that maybe what he said isn't as meaningless as I think. The way my little brother's trembling under my arm tells me that that seemingly random statement has a lot of meaning for _Sam_, and it's something that frightens him.

I do the only thing I _can_ do, squeeze Sam's shoulder tighter and whisper, "I'm right here," as the woman and the man leave the room.

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><p>What did you think? Good? Bad? Please review!<p> 


	13. What We Truly Are

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

Thanks to tiffaroolou, SPN Mum, Catriona, criminally charmed, SandyDee84, Tendencia, captainbartholomew, Eavis, BranchSuper, Leahelisabeth, BerrySPNFMA, caylender, Whateva876, sandycub, nupinoop296, giacinta, Kirabaros, doyleshuny and sammynanci for the reviews.

Also, congratulations to Leahelisabeth, nupinoop296, Kirabaros and sammynanci, who guessed the next step.

And special thanks to Cheryl and SandyDee84, for helping make this happen.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter XII: What We Truly Are<strong>

"Sam?" It's Hermione's voice that breaks the silence. "Sam, are you all right?"

Sam gives me a pleading glance.

"He's fine," I tell the kids, although I don't know how believable it is considering that Sam won't meet anyone's eyes but mine and he hasn't even _tried _to shove off the arm that I still have around him. "Umm… Why don't you guys get back to your Big Hall –"

"_Great Hall_," Hermione corrects, frowning. Evidently the effect of my awesome spellwork has work off. "It's the _Great Hall_. Haven't you read _Hogwarts: A History_?"

"Mixing me up with Sammy," I tell her. "Anyway, why don't you guys go back to it, whatever it's called, and Sam and I'll meet you there."

Hermione frowns. Ron elbows her.

"_Ron!_" she hisses.

"_What?_" Ron demands, in what's clearly meant to be an undertone but is plenty loud enough for me to hear. (And for Sam to hear, if his almost-smile is anything to go by.) "I just don't think they need one of your speeches about _feelings_."

If I weren't so worried about Sam, I would laugh.

As it is, I pretend not to hear.

Hermione glares at Ron, glares at Harry, glares at me (I don't know why; it's not like _I _said anything), looks at Sam like he's a puppy with a hurt paw that she wants to bandage, and stalks out of the room.

"Sorry, mate," Ron says. "She gets like that when she's afraid she might not get top marks in everything. See you in the Great Hall, yeah?"

"Sure," I say.

Sam's grip on my robes has loosened a little, but he's still holding on, so I tighten my arm as we watch Harry and Ron leave the room.

As soon as they've gone, I hustle Sam out – we are _not _doing this in a professor's office because, for one thing, even a magic teacher's office is still a _teacher's office_, and, second, this is the kind of place where one of the pictures on the walls might suddenly come to life and bite us.

We find an empty classroom a couple of doors down. I push him into a chair.

"All right, kiddo. Spill."

"Dean, you just – you have to know something first."

"What?"

"I – whatever happens, whatever goes down now, it's not your fault. You've always taken care of me and I'm grateful to you for that."

_What the hell?_

This is the goodbye speech. I know the goodbye speech. Sam makes it when he thinks he's going to die. He's made it each time he's gone to hospital with a serious injury, once when he went to hospital with a broken leg, practically every single time he's had a cold, and –

Yeah. Driving to Detroit. _That_ night.

Sam isn't allowed to make the goodbye speech anymore.

"You're not allowed to make the goodbye speech anymore," I tell him.

"Dean, I –"

"_No._ Look, no matter how badly screwed up this is, we're going to find a way out of it. You just tell me what the hell is going on around here."

Sam sighs. "OK. Dean, what Dumbledore said –"

There's a sudden, piercing scream from outside. Sam breaks off. We exchange a glance and run out of the room. I draw my wand, feeling stupid. I mean, it was fun when I was using it to impress the kids, but now I feel like a performing monkey. I'm not an eight-year-old girl and I don't want a magic wand. I want my _gun_. Or Sammy's gun. Or my knife, or a machete, or – hell, I'll settle for anything that doesn't make me look like an extra from a Disney movie.

Sam, I notice, _doesn't_ draw his wand.

And this weirdness seriously needs to end, _now_, because I just commented on Sam not drawing his wand and it was the _lack_ of wand that surprised me.

In the main hallway, a girl is pointing at a dog and screaming her head off.

I feel like Alice down the freaking rabbit hole. (And whoever is listening up there, if you even _try_ to send us into Wonderland next I am going to _kick your ass_, you hear me? Especially if this is your idea of a joke, any of you winged sons of bitches.)

Anyway, the dog (fortunately) isn't the hellhound that's been following us from book to book. It's a big black dog, and it's wagging its tail frantically at the screaming girl, although she can't see it because she's too busy making so much noise I'm sure my eardrums are going to rupture.

I'm not quite sure what to do – if I curse the dog, Sam's never going to let me hear the end of it. If I curse the girl, Sam's never going to let me hear the end of it. I'm pretty sure he won't mind if I make her shut up, but I'm not sure what the spell for that is. I wave my wand at her and yell, "_Shut up!_" and it has absolutely no effect. I'm sure Geekboy knows what the spell is, and I can _see _his wand sticking out of his sleeve, but he doesn't even try to draw it.

"_Sam!_" I yell. "Do something."

By this time a crowd has gathered. McGonagall and a sallow man with greasy hair are at the head. The man looks mean, but McGonagall looks furious, and right now if I were the dog I'd be more scared of _her_.

"Enough!" she snaps. She doesn't even raise her _voice_, but it's like flipping a switch. The girl shuts up and the dog's tail stops wagging and even _Sam _tries to make himself look smaller. "Potter!" McGonagall goes on. There's a shuffling noise, and Harry, Ron and Hermione emerge from the group of onlookers. "I believe this is _your _dog?"

"Yes, Professor," Harry says meekly.

"I am not going to ask how it's here." She pauses to glare furiously at the dog, which opens its mouth as though it's laughing and thumps its tail on the floor. "Take it _away_, Potter. I do not want to see it in the school again."

"Yes, Professor," Harry says, still meek, but sounding amused. He shoots a tiny grin at McGonagall. She smiles at back at him so quickly I'm _sure _I'm imagining it.

Harry walks up to the dog and pats its head. It sniffs his hand. "C'mon, Snuffles."

As he and the dog weave their way through the crowd and out of the hallway, I feel a hand grab my arm. It's not Sam's hand, because it's small and slender and doesn't have enough latent strength to crush rocks, so my first reaction is to pull away.

"Don't be ridiculous!" Hermione snaps. "Let's go." She glances at my brother. "Sam? Gryffindor Common Room?"

"Yeah," Sam mumbles. "Yeah, I'm coming."

He sounds distracted, and I'm still worried.

I bump his shoulder with mine. Sam looks at me, half-smiling, as we follow the three children and the dog.

"So," I ask quietly, "What do you think we're supposed to be?"

To my surprise, Sam chuckles softly. "American Aurors, but we're here as diplomats. The magical kind. Apparently _you _have been nominated head of the US Department of International Magical Cooperation because they wanted 'to project a strong image to the international wizarding community in these troubled times'."

"I'm _what_?" I gasp. "And to do _what_?"

"Yeah, that was my reaction when Dumbledore told me. Anyway, that's what you are, and I'm your awesome little brother who's here to keep you safe."

"I think we have a mix-up, Sam. _You _must be head of whatever that stupid department is, and I'm your awesome big brother, and you're here to do some girly thing like promote world peace and _I'm _here to make sure your ass stays alive while you do it."

"We're here to help _save _the world from the bad guys," Sam says. "And keeping my ass alive isn't –"

"_Shut up_," I hiss. I don't know how Sam was planning to finish that sentence, but one way or another I don't want to hear it. It hits too close to home, and right now the thought of losing Sam is still too near and still too raw. "That's – Sam, I…"

"I know," Sam says, but suddenly there's an undercurrent of fear in his voice. "Me too."

"Sam, what's going on?"

"I know what to do," Sam responds quietly. "I know how to get us out of here and back in our world."

There's a part of me that's saying I should be _thrilled _about that, because I've certainly had more than enough of this lunacy, but something about Sam's face catches me in the gut.

"What's wrong, then?"

"I'm scared," Sam confesses.

He's looking at me, fear and pain and guilt warring in his eyes, looking like he trusts me to have all the answers and make everything right for him, and when have I _ever _been able to resist that? I steal a glance ahead, where the kids are walking down the corridor with the dog, too occupied with whatever argument it is that they're having to pay attention to us, behind, where torchlight glints off rough stone, and finally draw Sam into a hug.

Sam lets out a choked sob, burying his head in my shoulder.

Something is _very _wrong.

"Hey." I hold him close, thankful for the dim lighting – even if the kids _do _look back, they won't see anything that might spoil my reputation for manliness. "Hey, settle down. I've got you. What are you afraid of?" Sam doesn't reply. "C'mon, kiddo, tell me. You've killed a dragon and faced down angels and beaten the devil himself, and _now _you're scared? What's going on?"

"None of this is supposed to happen," Sam says. His words are muffled by the material of my robes, but the hopelessness in his voice isn't. "Sirius – the dog – he isn't supposed to be here. I know where we have to go next, Dean, or at least where we have to go to end this, but it's going to be difficult and if – if _that _place turns out… you know… not the way it's supposed to be in the book… I don't know if I can handle it."

"What are you afraid of?" I ask, sliding my hand up and into Sam's hair. "We have to go together, right?" Sam's hair tickles my ear as he nods. "So? Don't worry. We'll be fine. Now tell me where we have to go."

"We have to –"

"_Dean!_"

I hear the shout and look up just in time to dive to the ground, pushing Sam under me, as the dog – Sam said it was called Sirius – sails over our heads and sinks its teeth into the throat of another dog that has somehow crept up behind us silently. The new dog – I should actually say the old dog, because that's the dog that's been pursuing us from book to book – snarls and writhes, but it can't shake Sirius off.

"Come _on_!" Hermione shrieks, and then she's running at us, Harry and Ron close behind her, and then we're all running, away from the Gryffindor Common Room, down the stairs. At some point Sirius catches up with us.

"_Here!_" Hermione throws open a door, we fling ourselves through, and then she slams the door shut. A second later there's a snarl from the other side, and the thump of something heavy hitting the door.

"That won't hold it for long," a new voice says.

I turn.

Where the dog was a moment earlier, now there's a man. I tense, but Sam puts a hand on my arm.

What an awesome time for my brother to start off on how werewolves are people too. (Or weredogs, I suppose, or were-whatever-the-hell-this-guy-is.)

"_No_, Dean," Sam says firmly. "He's an Animagus."

"Unregistered," the man adds, smiling wolfishly, before I can ask what an Animagus is and whether it's something we should be killing. "But we can get to that in a moment." He points his wand at the door. A jet of golden light shoots out of the end, hits the door, and fades into a dull glow. "That should keep us safe – at least from _that _thing." He grimaces. "So, Sam… I wasn't expecting to see _you _ever again, especially after that fiasco in Liverpool. And this must be Dean?" Sirius shakes my hand. Up close, I can see that he was once _very _handsome and that he's almost as tall as Sam. "I hear you've been giving the Ministry a hard time with that treaty they want signed."

Why the _hell _couldn't Sam be the diplomat?

Fortunately I don't have to think of anything to say; Sirius turns to Sam without giving me time to respond. "Why didn't Dumbledore tell me you were coming?"

"It was unexpected," Sam replies. "We Portkeyed over yesterday."

It's like he's talking another language.

"What _is _that thing?" Hermione gasps.

"That, my dear," Sirius says, mimicking a high female voice – probably Trelawney's – "is a _Grim_."

"A – Sirius, come on –"

"I'm not having you on. That _is _a Grim. You see one, you almost always die." He shrugs. "Of course, that's because if _it _sees _you_, its next act will be to tear your throat out. Omens have nothing to do with it. One of Voldemort's early experiments in animal husbandry."

"So what now?" Harry demands.

Sam heaves a deep breath and squares his shoulders. "I need to get to the library."

I glance at him sharply. "You sure? Don't you think we need to – _discuss _– this first?"

Sam shakes his head. "We don't have time, Dean. It's _here_. And every minute we spend talking…"

"Sam –"

"_Dean._"

"Umm, not to interfere or anything," Ron interjects, speaking for the first time since Sirius showed up, "but you _do _realize that there's a great slobbering hellhound on the other side of that door? How do you think we're going to _get _to the library?"

Sam turns to Sirius. "Is there another way out of here?"

Sirius nods. "A secret passage that comes out not far from the library. I don't know if it'll be able to track us there. I don't think so, but even if it does, there'll be less distance to cover."

Ten minutes later, we're scrambling out of a dingy, cobwebby tunnel, Ron mumbling about spiders and Hermione shushing him impatiently. Sirius and the kids go out first. I hold Sam back.

"It's something to do with the hellhound, isn't it? Where we need to go?" Sam nods. "You sure you can handle this, kiddo?"

Sam nods again, leaning into me for the briefest of moments before he straightens to his full height. "I don't know if I can," he says, "but I know you'll take care of me if I can't."

"Damn straight."

We hurry out. The corridor is empty. We scramble across and down and I'm not even _trying _to keep track anymore, although Sam probably already has a 3D map of the place in his head.

"_There!_" Hermione points to a set of huge double doors. We run towards it –

There's a sudden growl from behind us –

"I'll take care of it," Sirius says, turning and pushing me aside. "Go. Do what you have to do."

"Sirius," Sam protests, "will you –"

"I'll be fine. Just go." He pats Sam's shoulder. "Be careful. Hurry. He's not interested in us, we won't be able to keep him occupied for long."

"But –"

"_Go!_"

The hellhound growls and charges. I grab Sam and run for the library doors. We get through and slam them shut behind us. I feel a momentary pang at the thought that we're leaving Sirius and the kids – _kids_ – outside, but I suppress it. I mean, this is Harry Potter and his friends. They're as immune to death in these books as archangel vessels are in the real world.

Sam's already searching through the stacks. He seems to be looking for something specific, so I don't offer to help.

As I watch, I hear a frustrated shout and then something hits the doors hard enough to make them shudder.

Apparently Sirius wasn't kidding when he said they wouldn't be able to hold it long.

"Sam? You might want to speed it up."

Sam shakes his head, shoving books aside even more frantically. After a minute and two more heavy thuds, he finds _something_. He frowns over it, shakes his head, and finally comes to me. "I was hoping for an English version – but I think this is the best we're going to get."

"So this is it?"

Sam hesitates, looking back at the shelf.

There's another thump. The door begins to splinter.

"Never mind!" I snap. "No time. Just read."

Sam opens the book. "It probably has to be the same place. I mean, wherever it tosses us, that's probably where we need to _read_ –"

"Sam?"

"Here!" He stops flipping pages and looks down, suddenly almost terrified. "I _can't_. Dean, will you…?"

"Sure, kiddo." I take the book from him. "Where do I read?"

I start where Sam's finger points.

"_Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate._"

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	14. Ye Who Enter Here

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

**Warning: **OK, so… Dante, and _Inferno_, so even though I've tried not to get too graphic and to keep it PG, there might be some imagery in this that some people might find disturbing and/or offensive. Please use your discretion.

**Author's Note: **I split Dante into three chapters instead of two, because it just got so long – so there's an extra chapter. ;-)

Thanks to Cheryl and SandyDee84 for helping make this happen.

For reviewing, thanks to emebalia, Katy M VT, CeCe Away, BerrySPNFMA, Kirabaros, shelleluver, Tendencia, doyleshuny, agent iz hyper, nupinoop296, Victorian Secret, SPN Mum, Whateva876, SandyDee84, BranchSuper, sammynanci, caylender, sylvia37, giacinta, Eavis, captainbartholomew, godsdaughter77 and Too Many Screennames.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter XIII: Ye Who Enter Here<strong>

The light doesn't fade this time. It just trembles and changes, whiteness turning into a blinding orange glow that surrounds us, coming from all directions at once.

It takes me several seconds and a lot of blinking to get used to it. Eventually I realize that the light _isn't_ coming from everywhere. It's coming from above, but everything around us is reflecting it. For one disorientated moment I wonder if Sam's put us in the Arabian Nights – I imagine this is what Ali Baba's cave would look like – but then I feel the unbearable chill in the air and I realize that what we're surrounded by is _ice_.

Through the ice I can see shapes behind me – a huge foot, so big that the top of the toe is above my head, attached to a leg that disappears into swirling mist above me. And another, matching foot several yards away.

The ground trembles, and I have a horrible feeling that a giant just scuffed his boots.

Then the screaming starts.

It's not Sam, thank _God_, because it's a high, unending, tormented wail and I can't stand even the _idea _of Sam making a sound like that _ever_.

I try to see, but the orange light is reflecting off everything.

"Sam?" I ask, shouting to be heard above the awful screaming. "Where are we?"

Sam doesn't respond.

I turn, suddenly afraid.

Sam's right behind me – on his knees on the ground with his hands clutching his head and his shoulders shaking. My heart goes down to my toes.

"Sammy?" I drop to my knees next to him and put my hand on his shoulder. He doesn't react, doesn't give any sign that he's aware of me. "What is it?" I whisper, not sure if he can hear me over the noise but knowing he'll know what I'm asking. There's no response. "Sammy, _please_. You're scaring me. What's wrong?"

"_Dean._" It's half-word, half-sob, choked out through a stuttering breath and if I hadn't got a big brother radar to warn me whenever Sam wants me, I wouldn't know what he'd said.

"Right here." I tuck his head under my jaw, feeling his breath, hot and uneven, on my neck. "I'm _right here_. Where are we?"

I'm worried. The screaming reminds me of –

But it can't be that. It can't, because I've been in Hell, and there are demons everywhere, and meathooks and chains and torture instruments, and it isn't this cold, and there's no ice, and –

And I remember Lucifer using his fingertip to draw on a windowpane in Detroit.

"Sammy?" I ask, holding him as close as I can without restricting his breathing. "Are we in Hell?"

"I'm sorry," Sam says into my shoulder, voice still shaking. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I thought I could handle it. It's just –"

"_Hey._" I cup the back of his head. "Give yourself a minute, moron." I hold him, rubbing comforting circles on his back, until he stops shaking. Then I ask, "What kind of Hell is this, Sam? This isn't much like I remember." Well, other than the screaming.

"You were never in this part of it." He sounds steadier, although he doesn't try to pull away from me. I keep rubbing his back, not even bothering to make excuses to myself. Sam needs reassurance and I need to give it to him. "It's different up there."

He gestures, and I look up. It takes a moment to get used to the light, but when I finally do, I can make out, far above us, the kind of Hell I _do _remember – fire, and torture, and the souls of the damned moving back and forth in a spine-chillingly dark dance.

And then I realize that from _this _part of Hell, whatever it is – I have a pretty good idea what, but I'm not going to say it until Sam does – the _rest _of Hell looks _good_. Sam referred to it as _up there_.

If I didn't have a little brother to comfort, I'd be violently sick about now.

"We're in Dante," Sam says suddenly, and although he's speaking softly I can hear every word, the screaming fading into background noise, the way every other sound always does when Sam's saying something and I need to hear it. "_Inferno. _The lowest circle of Hell – the Circle of Ice. I think – I think we'll have to go through, into Purgatory, _Purgatorio_,and that's where we'll find a way out."

"Back to the real world?"

"Yeah." Sam shivers suddenly. "Dean, if I can't –"

"_Hey!_" I shake him. "You're not allowed to talk like that."

"Dean, we'll have to go past _Lucifer_. I don't know if I'm strong enough."

"Yeah, well, _I_ do. You're the strongest person I know – and this isn't really Lucifer, right, Sam? This is just Dante's imagination."

"I don't think so." Sam shivers, pressing himself closer to me. I tighten my arms, and if it makes his breathing get a little harsher, well, I still think he needs it. "The hellhound was real. Dean, the – the circles, the ice, the trappings, all _those _are Dante's, but I think the people here are real… well, maybe not all the people, but Lucifer, definitely. This is… I can _feel_ it. The Cage, it's different, even from the rest of Hell. It… you know, it _changes_. Because he's an Archangel; they could trap him in it but they couldn't prevent him from doing whatever he wanted inside."

"OK." I'm crushing Sam to me so tightly I can feel the too-fast thumping of his heart. "You think Michael's going to be here?"

"I don't _know_ –"

"OK, it's OK." I give Sam a brief squeeze to get his attention. I'm feeling a little guilty. What I'm about to pull is kind of a dirty trick. But if it'll get Sam to come with me… "You have to pull yourself together, Sam. I need you. You're the one who knows your way around this place. I don't know jack squat about the Cage _or _about this Dante dude, and I'm guessing they won't even be talking English. You have to get us out."

Sam nods, but he makes no effort to move. I don't push him. We're here, and now we have time.

After what seems like half an hour – but I know better than to trust time perceptions in Hell; it might be a minute, or it might be several days – Sam pulls away from me. I help him to his feet and make sure he's steady before I let go.

"Sam?"

"Let's go."

Sam takes a couple of steps forward. I see we're standing on the edge of what looks like a huge, frozen lake. There are some stones poking out of it here and there.

"Is it safe to walk on?" I ask.

"Oh, yeah. It never breaks. That's kind of the point." Sam steps onto the ice. I tense, waiting for him to slip – but nothing happens. He turns to look at me. "Come on, Dean. It isn't that slippery. It's not… not real ice. It's Lucifer's ice. If he wants to make people fall, he doesn't use such obvious ways to do it."

I put one foot tentatively on the ice. Sam's right – it feels like walking on smooth marble, or polished granite. Not a whole lot of friction, and you could probably slide on it if you tried, but it isn't slippery enough to make you fall.

"This part is called the Caïna," Sam says, leading me forward. His voice is high, brittle, and I know he's talking just to give himself something to focus on, so I don't interrupt. "It's for traitors to kindred."

He gestures. I see that what I'd assumed were stones sticking out of the lake's surface are in fact people's heads. People who are buried up to their necks in the ice.

That's where the screaming is coming from.

One of the heads hisses something at Sam. Not in English, and I don't understand him, but Sam stops short, looking stricken.

Before I quite know what I'm doing, I've lunged forward to grab Sam's arm protectively. "_My little brother_," I snarl at the guy. "I don't care who you are. You don't get to upset him." Then I realize the man, whoever he is, can't understand me.

"Dean," Sam murmurs, "that's Cain."

That stops _me _short. "Cain? _The _Cain?"

Sam nods. I look at the guy. "Sammy is _nothing _like you," I tell him coldly. "And you know something else? I _am _my brother's keeper. And he's mine."

"_Dean._" Sam tugs at my arm. "Don't stop to talk to them. Let's just go."

I stick close to Sam's side as we pick our way through the hissing, screaming people.

It takes a few minutes, but eventually we're through most of them. Sam doesn't relax.

"Something worse up ahead?" I guess.

"Antenora," Sam says. "Named after Antenor of Troy."

"Sam, I know that you think that's enough to answer all my questions, but you have to explain it _better_ for the people who actually had _fun _in high school."

"People who betrayed their country come here."

"Like that dude in 300?"

"Yeah."

"And Benedict Arnold?"

Sam laughs sharply. There's no humour in it. "I suppose so, although he hadn't been born when Dante wrote this."

There are more people trapped in the ice, and these, I can see, are moving a little. I don't want to know – I don't even want to _think _about what they're doing – and obviously Sam doesn't either. We hurry through.

Then the heads are gone.

I tug at Sam's elbow.

"That it? We through?"

Sam shakes his head. "No. They're just… buried deeper. This is the Ptolomaea. For… for people who betray their guests." He's talk again, too quickly, and I keep my hand on his arm. "These souls… Sometimes they fall before Atropos has had time to cut their thread. And if she's not cut it, the Reaper's not there for them…"

He guides me away from a depression in the ice. I look – although I _know _I'm going to regret it – and see a person's face. He's lying under the ice, just enough of his face showing to let him breathe… and scream.

Because that screaming? Still there. The light's fading, though, as we get further away from the edge of the lake.

"That's what Dante says," Sam goes on, speaking almost too fast for me to understand as he hustles me through the semi-darkness. "Says that if that happens, a demon can take over the body right away. Says these people… they've fallen too far to be capable of repentance anymore." He swallows. "It's true, too. Lucifer told me."

"Keep walking, Sam."

We walk for what seems like _hours_.

Suddenly the screaming stops.

The light has faded to the faintest glow from behind us, just enough for me to see the outline of Sam's face as he looks at me, eyes wide.

"Dean, I can't –"

"Yes, you can." I fist the back of Sam's robe. I note with faint surprise that we've both changed our wizard clothes for loose grey robes, but honestly who the hell cares about _costumes_ right now? "I'm right here with you and you _can _do this, Sam. I've got your back."

I give Sam a light push. He shudders, but he walks.

"This… this is the last part before we come to Lucifer." His voice is echoing eerily in the silence. "Judecca."

Despite myself, I look around. There's nothing here, not even the depressions where the ice had been parted for a person's face in the _last _part.

"Where's…"

"Below. Don't look down."

I look down.

Right under me – _under _me – a few feet below, is a human body. It's contorted into a position so unnatural that I can't tell if it's male or female; the ice is obscuring details so that it's a faint, ghostly shadow.

"Let me guess," I say, mouth dry. "Judas is here?"

"No." Sam swallows. "Well, he was in – you know – in Hell in _our _world. Here, in Dante, he'll probably be with Lucifer. Or maybe not. I don't know how much is real anymore." He's shaking. "The Cage was – it was just for me. Lucifer always said it was because nobody else could – could ever match the evil I'd done –"

"_Sam!_" I grab him, stopping him short. No matter how insanely horrible it is to have to walk over a demented mosaic of people, I _am not _letting that one slide. "Tell me you know you don't belong here."

"Dean –"

I give him a hard shake. "_Say it._"

The tension drains out of Sam's body. He lowers his head, hands coming up to rest on my shoulders. "I know, Dean. I really do. I'm sorry. It's just – this place –"

"So long as you know that," I say, cutting off the apology. "Let's just get out of here. Get back to _our _world."

Sam starts to move forward again. He keeps a tight grip on my robe. I don't stop him; I'm pretty freaked out myself, and I don't have memories of being tortured here for nearly two hundred years.

Something's looming ahead of us. Something _huge_. I can't tell what it is from its shape – it looks like a small mountain protruding from the ice.

The mountain shivers.

Sam moves closer to me, not protesting the arm I wrap around his shoulders.

The mountain moves, _opens_, and I see that it isn't a mountain at all, it's a pair of wings big enough to blot out the sun over an entire city. The wings unfurl, huge and dark and monstrous.

"_Sam?_"

"That's Lucifer," Sam whispers. "He was in that form when he fell."

The _thing _in front of us raises its head – no, _heads_, it has freaking _three _of them – and looks at us. Its gaze is malevolent, furious, and the most terrifying thing I've ever seen. It's buried up to its waist in the ice; even so, the heads are so far above that it shouldn't even be able to _see _us, but I'm dead certain it can. Even from here, I can see the fiery red gleam in its evil eyes.

I can also see movement near its heads.

"Judas," Sam explains. "And Brutus and Cassius. Just keep going."

"Did he really look like this in the Cage?" I ask.

Sam shrugs. "Sometimes. Usually not. This was just for when he got _really _frustrated and needed to vent."

"Sam –"

"Can we not talk about it? _Please?_"

"OK." I tighten the arm I have around him. "Where do we need to go now?"

"We have to go through." He indicates Lucifer. "His… _fur_. We have to use that to climb down. It'll take us to Purgatory. That should have the way out."

"Can he do anything to us?"

"I don't think –"

Sam breaks off as a figure appears in front of us. It's wearing a flannel shirt under a leather jacket, old blue jeans, and –

Oh _God_.

It's _me_.

* * *

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	15. Of That Second Kingdom

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

Thanks to my reviewers: Katy M VT, usa123, Kirabaros, agent iz hyper, Whateva876, captainbartholomew, sammynancy, sylvia37, BerrySPNFMA, Eavis, nupinoop296, criminally charmed, SandyDee84, BranchSuper, Tendencia, Brielle-W, SPN Mum, giacinta, CeCe Away, fledglingfeathers, doyleshuny, godsdaughter77, Fantasy's Magic, Likaella, jolynn3277, TinTin11, Fireks and Gilded; and to Cheryl and SandyDee84 for making this happen.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter XIV: Of That Second Kingdom<strong>

"Hey, Sam," the not-me says. "Finally got here, huh? Dude, I've been waiting for _ever_. C'mon, let's blow this joint."

"No, please," Sam whispers, coming closer to _me_. "Please, not Dean. I can't – _please_."

"Dude, what _is _it with you and monsters? Stop cuddling the shifter and let's _go_."

I tug Sam's head down so I can murmur in his ear. "It's me, Sam. _This is me._ He's lying. I'm here – I've been with you all along –"

"You really believe him?" the not-me says, sneering. "The book dropped us in different places this time, and Lucifer conjured _that_…" It nods in my direction. "Just to mess with your head. Come on, Sam. Let's go."

Sam's confused now. I can see it on his face. Half of him wants to cling to me, half of him is wondering if I'm a hallucination.

Before I can say anything to reassure him, the not-me comes up to us and yanks him away. "Come _on_, Sammy! We don't have all day." Sam stumbled, and he – _it _– grabs his arm to steady him. "What, I have to hold you up now?"

"Please," Sam says, trying to pull his arm free. "Please, just –"

"_Sam._" Its grip tightens and it pulls Sam closer. Sam chokes out another plea.

OK. That's it. That thing is going _down_.

"_Let him go_," I growl, marching up to them.

The not-me looks at me and shrugs. I reach for Sam, but it tugs him closer. "It's me, Sammy. I'm your big brother," it says, and it _sounds _so much like me that Sam's starting to have doubts.

No. _Way._

"Just so you know," I tell the not-me pleasantly, "I hate you." I grab Sam, wrenching him out of the thing's hands, and pull one of his arms behind his back. "_I hate you for making me do this._" I twist Sam's arm. He whimpers, and I almost wish the ground would just open up and swallow me, because the last thing I want to do is hurt Sam even more when he's already confused and scared. "Sam, it's _me_. Feel this? Different, remember?"

"_Dean?_"

"Right here." I release his arm, and I absolutely do _not _rub it before letting go completely. Nor do I squeeze his shoulder or ruffle his hair.

So, after not doing all those things, I look at Sam. The not-me hasn't disappeared, which I guess is unsurprising because Lucifer's probably conjuring it and Sam said he could do anything in the Cage, but it sucks because means Sam's still uncertain of which me is me.

"Trust me," the not-me croons. "Trust me, Sammy. I'll take care of you. I've always done that, haven't I? Watched out for you?" It reaches out to cup Sam's chin. "He just hurt you, didn't he? I would never do that. So you know he isn't me. I would never hurt you. Especially not in this place. Not when you're already tired and confused. I've never hurt you."

"Yes, I have," I say, coming up behind them, resisting the urge to rip its arms off. "I _have_ Sammy, and I'm sorry. We've hurt each other. We've said crap we didn't mean, we've done things we regret, but that doesn't matter. Not really. I'm sorry for every time I've hurt you, but none of it changes the fact that you are my little brother and I need you with me."

Sam sucks in a deep breath, and nods. The not-me flickers and disappears.

I jerk, startled. "That was easy. All it took was a chick-flick moment?"

Sam shakes his head. "I don't think it'll be that easy. There's going to be something on the other side. But there's no point waiting around here. Let's go on." He points at where Lucifer's body meets the ice, his waist as wide around as several football fields. "Purgatory."

There's a gap in the ice. We climb down, over Satan's legs and past his feet, and then we're slipping and sliding down hard stone, and it's getting hot again – unbearably hot. There's fire and an odd moment of weightlessness, and then I have the sudden, disorientating feeling that we're climbing back _up_.

"Sam?" I ask.

"It's OK," Sam says. "We've gone through the centre of the earth and gravity's reversed, that's all. Nothing to worry about."

"We've _what_?"

"This is Dante's way to Purgatory. Trust me, we'll be fine."

Sam seems more together, now, so I don't ask any more questions. We climb up, and it feels like hours – which is normal, I guess, considering that we're moving through the bowels of the earth.

When we finally come up, arms aching and legs sore, we're on what looks like some kind of volcanic island. There's a mountain behind us, peak disappearing into the white clouds overhead, sloping down sharply to a narrow strip of beach. The water is too blue to be real, and I can tell that, underneath, the ocean floor falls away almost as sharply as the mountainside.

There's a winding path going towards the mountain, and I'm guessing that's the road we have to take. Several yards down it, a man is standing waiting for us – a Roman from around the time of Julius Caesar, if I'm any judge (and believe me, between Dad's Latin lessons and Sam geeking out over history books, I _am _a good judge). As we approach, he says something in a language I don't understand.

"Cato the Younger," Sam explains. "He guards the entrance to Purgatory."

"So… We have to _fight_ him or something?" I ask, a little nervously, as Cato the Younger draws a wickedly sharp sword. Sam and I are both unarmed.

"I don't think so." Sam's eyeing him with a thoughtful frown. "This isn't _exactly_ Dante, I think, more of a mixture of Dante and… you know… what it's _really _like. And to get into Purgatory for real, you only need to believe that you deserve forgiveness."

"I've done a lot of crap, Sam."

"Dean," Sam says mildly. "You said it yourself. We've all made mistakes. It's only a question of whether the good outweighs the bad." I shake my head, suddenly feeling the weight of guilt from all my mistakes – and there have been plenty. "_Hey._" Sam squeezes my shoulder. "You got my soul out of Hell. You gave me something to hold on to when Cas broke the Wall. You _raised_ me, and that has to count for something, right?"

"Sammy –"

"Come on, big brother," Sam says lightly. "He won't stop us."

Sam leads, and I trail behind him a little less confidently, especially when Cato the Younger draws down his eyebrows and studies me like I'm a bug he found in his Ancient Roman wineglass. But after a minute the scowl fades a little, and he nods and lets us pass.

The road starts to slope gently upwards. We're not alone. There are people everywhere. Nobody's saying a thing, though; they're all dead silent, watching us with wide, haunted eyes, and in some ways it's even more disturbing than Hell.

"Ummm… Sam?" I murmur. "Who _are _these guys?"

"Souls waiting to enter Purgatory," Sam replies. "Just keep walking."

"It's getting dark," I point out. The sun is setting, and the rocks are shining warm and golden in its light. "We're not going to be able to keep going in the dark, Sam. I don't know what happens if you fall down the Purgatory-mountain, but I'm guessing it isn't good."

Sam hesitates, and then nods. "That's what Dante did, too. I guess we should stop. There's a valley… If you spot it –"

"Don't know imaginary valleys from geeky books, Sam."

Sam rolls his eyes and points at something up ahead. I can just see the ground dipping down on the horizon. "That must be it. We can stop there for the night."

The valley is closer than it looks. And it's pretty in that flowery, nature-filled way hippies like Sam tend to like.

Unfortunately, you can barely see the nature for the people. Going by the number of people who've picked this as a camp-for-the-night spot, Sam's not the only one who's read Dante.

They all look ultra-rich. They're wearing clothes made of some rich velvety material, and the women – there are a few – have gold and jewels practically _dripping_ from their hands and hair. Nobody I recognize, because the crowd is made up of wealthy Italians from whatever number of centuries ago.

Some of the people try to speak to us, but they're only speaking Italian, and Sam doesn't explain who they are.

"Nobody you need to worry about," is all he says when I ask him.

It's starting to get cold when we settle down for the night, so when Sam sidles up to me I don't push him away. Normally I would, but – well, it _is _cold, and the kid's had a rough time. He hasn't said anything since we left Lucifer behind, but I know it wasn't easy. And part of the big brother job description is that sometimes your shoulder has to be an anti-nightmare pillow. Even if your little brother is bigger than most of the things that make noises in the night.

I run my fingers lightly up and down Sam's spine – purely to send him to sleep sooner, because the quicker he knocks off, the less time he'll have to whine at me.

Sam's just starting to doze when a high, spine-tingling, eerie howl sounds through the darkness.

Sam jerks awake. "_No._"

"Sammy –"

Sam ignores me. I'm not surprised. Sam usually ignores me when I'm trying to talk sense to him. Why should it be any different just because we're stuck in some weird magic world where books come to life and bite you in the ass?

Sam scrambles to his feet and onto the road. He stands still for a long moment, looking down it.

I can hear something. Claws on gravel. The unsteady patter of paws. The breathing of a dog.

"_Run!_"

Sam gives me a push to get me going, but he has those ostrich-legs so it isn't long before he gets ahead. When he realizes I'm falling behind, he turns, grabs my arm and _runs_, so fast I'm slipping and stumbling and he's practically dragging me.

"Sammy –"

"We have to beat it to the gate," Sam gasps. "No time. I think it's – it's what the witch – she sent it."

I don't ask. I'm sure Sam will explain later. If there _is _a later, it'll probably be hard to get him to shut up about it.

There's a gate looming ahead of us. In front of it is a man with a sword. He moves; shadow-wings flicker briefly behind him, and I feel a spark of anger.

_Angel_.

The dog is getting closer. I can hear it.

The angel holds out his sword to stop us.

"Ignore him," Sam hisses.

"_What?_ Dude, that's a pretty big sword –"

"Doesn't matter. We're supposed to get through. That's the point of the book, to travel through Purgatory. We'll get through. He'll move."

I don't argue.

Sam's right. (Don't ever tell him I said so.) When we're a split-second away from being skewered, the sword disappears. We fall through the gate.

There's total silence.

"Sam?" I ask. "What the hell?"

"The witch's medallion," he says. I think back to that witch's altar, all those days ago, and the medallion that melted in the rain. "It had Hecate's Wheel on it – and dogs were associated with Hecate."

"So the witch sent the dog?"

"Probably. And I don't think it's going to let up. It might take a while for it to get through the gate, but it'll come. We have to figure out the way out of here." He heaves a breath, squares his shoulders and looks around.

There's not much to see. We're on one edge of what looks like a huge plain. It stretches on in every direction – even behind us; I turn around and see that the gate's vanished – empty and unrelieved.

Sam frowns.

"There should be something. Statues –"

"This isn't really Dante anymore." It's a woman's voice.

Someone's appeared in front of us, a slender, blonde woman shrouded in mist that's melting away as we watch. As the last of the mist dissipates, she comes forward – I can't tell how; I didn't see her move but suddenly she's right in front of us.

Sam stiffens next to me.

Jessica smiles at him. "Well, in essence _is _Dante, and you'll see the terraces soon. But first you have to prove yourselves worthy." She shrugs. "Only one of you, really. Then you can both go in."

"OK," Sam says. "What do I –"

"_No_," I snap. "I'll do it." Sam starts to argue. I talk over him. "I'm not saying you can't do it, Sam. But come on – we just came through Dante's version of Lucifer's Cage. You're not telling me your head isn't a little messed up." Sam makes the eyes. "Stop it. You have nothing to prove, Sammy." I nod at Jessica. "I'm doing this."

She smiles brightly. "OK."

Before I can ask any questions, I feel a sharp tug. A minute later I'm sitting in a chair with my wrists firmly tied to the arms and my ankles to the legs.

"_Jess!_" Sam protests. "Let him go."

"It's just a test, Sam."

"But –"

"_Sam_," she says sharply. "Calm down. That hellhound is still after you, and if it catches you, you will die – here _and _in the real world."

"Wait, you know what's going on?"

"Oh, come on." She rolls her eyes. "You're smarter than this. Or at least, you were when I knew you. This is where that happy fantasy of library-land meets the real world. This is the witch's revenge."

"And are you… Jess?"

She hesitates before answering. "Yes. I'm not normally here, you understand. They sent me upstairs. But I'm here for you."

Sam nods, slowly, standing next to my chair with one hand resting on my shoulder. "What do we have to do?"

"_You_ don't have to do anything. This one's for Dean."

"Pride?"

"Very good, Sam." She smiles at him approvingly. Sam smiles back, and I feel a pang for what might have been. But before I can get too upset, Sam squeezes my shoulder, and Jess turns her smile on me. "So… Dean."

"Jessica."

"Don't look so worried. You just have to answer a few questions."

"I sucked at taking quizzes in high school."

"Your life didn't depend on the quizzes you took in high school." She cocks her head. "Nor did Sam's… Oh, don't look so horrified, Dean. Answer truthfully and there's a good chance you'll both leave alive. But if you lie to me, that hellhound will get to Sam before it gets to you." Something passes across her face, and I get the feeling that Jessica Moore isn't going to forgive me if the hellhound gets to Sam.

The irony makes my lip curl. "So ask your question."

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><p>What did you think? Good? Bad? Please review!<p> 


	16. Purgatorio

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

**Author's Note: **Yes, of _course _there's an epilogue. Posted tomorrow, since I'll be going out of town after that. And with that, this fic will be done. I'll be travelling for the next couple of weeks, so there won't be too many fics… But the tags should start up again once I'm back. ;-) And then there's another little project I'm working on…

Thanks to shelleluver, agent iz hyper, Whateva876, criminally charmed, Sapphire09, BerrySPNFMA, CeCe Away, nupinoop296, SPN Mum, doyleshuny, SandyDee84, Katy M VT, Eavis, BranchSuper, godsdaughter77, Kirabaros, Gothic Barbarian, giacinta, Fantasy's Magic, caylender, Likaella, Tendencia, Mythical Element, TinTin11 and sammynanci for the reviews, and to Cheryl and SandyDee84 for making this happen.

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><p><strong>Chapter XV: Purgatorio<strong>

The smile vanishes. She looks deadly serious now. "What are you proudest of, Dean?" Sam's hand tightens on my shoulder. "You've done a lot of things in your life, some good, some bad. What are you proudest of?"

I lick dry lips. "I… I'm proud of what I've done for my family."

"Really? What have you done for your family?"

"I always did everything my dad told me to," I say, because that's what they want to hear upstairs, right? That you were a good son?

Jess raises an eyebrow. "You obeyed him blindly. That's a virtue?"

"You sound like Sam."

She shrugs. "Maybe. In any case, it isn't true that you did everything your father wanted. Your father asked you to kill Sam."

Sam takes a step forward. "Only if –"

"_Sam._" She frowns at him, and he falls silent. "Good. He has to answer himself or it doesn't count. Now stop interfering." She looks back at me. "Dean? I'm waiting. What did you do for your family that you're so proud of?"

"Are you saying you think I should've killed Sam?" I demand.

She rolls her eyes. "_No_, Dean." She sounds exactly like Sam when he's on one of his big-brothers-are-stupid trips. No wonder they hooked up. "I'm asking you to explain what you did that makes you proud."

"I was always there for Sam."

"Were you there when those hunters tried to force him to drink demon blood?" she asks, her voice like the crack of a whip.

"_Jess!_" Sam protests.

She ignores him, studying me. "Dean? The hellhound's coming." I swallow as I meet her eyes. They _were_ friendly, but now they're cold and blue. "You have about seven minutes if you want to save yourself. Three if you want to save Sam, too."

Seven minutes to save myself. Three minutes to save Sam.

Four minutes of watching a hellhound rip my little brother apart.

_God no._

"I… I'm proud of… I've saved a lot of innocent people."

"Was _this_ why you saved them? So you could brag about it later?"

I hear the hellhound howl, and the horrifyingly familiar pad of its loping feet.

"_Please_," I beg. "Please, don't let it get Sam. I'll answer everything you want later –"

"You want to save Sam? Answer now." She crosses her arms. "What are you proud of?"

"Nothing?" I try, hoping desperately that that's it.

She glares at me. Apparently not. "_Nothing?_" she repeats incredulously. "In all your life you've done _nothing _that you're proud of?"

"I'm _sorry_." I'm panicking now. I can hear the hellhound getting closer. "I'm sorry, please, just let him go, I know I've screwed everything up, everything I've ever touched –"

"_Dean!_" This time it's Sam who snaps at me. He's on his knees next to my chair to be closer to my eye-level. "Don't be stupid. You can't let this place beat you. You can't lose faithin yourself." I open my mouth, but he waves me to silence. "You're an awesome big brother and _I'm _proud of you." The puppy-dog eyes come out. "I _am_, Dean. You have to know that."

We're about to die – _Sam _is about to be torn to shreds by a demon dog that's getting closer by the _second_ – and he's taking the trouble to make sure I know whatever emo crap it is that's in his head.

_God_, I love the kid.

I can't stop myself from reaching out to rest a hand on his head.

It's only when I feel his hair brushing my fingertips that I realize the ropes have vanished. I'm free.

And I know my answer.

"Sammy." I turn to Jessica, who's watching me with a sad little smile. "More than anything, I'm proud of Sammy."

The ground falls away beneath us.

We're standing on a cobbled street. It's lined with statues on either side. I don't look at them; I'm listening to Jessica.

"Seven terraces," she explains, more to me than to Sam. "One for each of the deadly sins. You only need to get to number four – Sloth. Your way out is there."

"What do we have to do?" I ask.

"Run. And remember, Dean, the hellhound will go for Sam first. He was the one who hunted it, so it wants to take him out." Damn it. I _knew _I shouldn't have let Sam go after the dog in Holmes-land. "Sam, _remember_," she adds, speaking directly to him. "Sloth." Sam nods. "Good luck."

"Jess –"

"I know," she cuts in, reaching up to rest her hand on his cheek.

I clear my throat. "So, umm, if it's all the same to everyone, I'm going to go wait over there." Neither Jessica nor Sam reacts as I walk away to give them some privacy. I don't go far – the hellhound's still coming, and Jess said it would go for Sammy first.

They don't draw out their goodbyes. It's only a couple of minutes before Sam is coming towards me. If his eyes are a little too bright, and if he leans into me when I throw my arm around his shoulders, I don't say anything about it.

The hellhound howls behind us, and suddenly Sam's all business.

"_Move!_"

We run.

As we move into the avenue of statues, I feel a rush of incredible confidence. I'm Dean Winchester, and no hellhound is going to get near me or my little brother. In fact, I don't even know why we're _fleeing_ like children. We should stop and send it back to its boss with its tail between its legs.

"_No_," Sam hisses in my ear, grabbing my arm and tugging. I realize I'm standing still. "Don't pay attention, Dean. It's just this place messing with your head. Keep moving."

We run through the avenue and up some steps, and now the statuary is gone and it's voices, voices on the wind. They're whispering about how easy Sam's had it, how unfair it is that he got a clean end with Jessica while ending things between me and Lisa dragged on for _months_, how typical of him it is to have something wrong with his head and need to be pampered like a child even after all the trouble I went to getting him out of Hell.

"Envy?" I ask. Sam nods, and we run.

But I can't help thinking… If that's what the voices are telling me, what's _Sam _hearing? After all, pretty much everyone on earth has had an easier time of it than he has.

The hellhound's getting closer.

"What's next?" I gasp as we hurtle up another set of steps, hearing those thudding footsteps louder and nearer every second.

"Anger."

I'm warned, and so I'm prepared for the sights and sounds that assault me – or, rather, the lack of sight that assaults me – as we come to level ground. There's smoke, thick and acrid, burning my eyes. I can't see where I'm going – I can't see –

Sam grabs my hand. It's girly, yeah, but normally I would understand why – we're in some weird half-imaginary, half-real crazyland, and we can't afford to get separated. Normally I would plan to tease him about this later – after shoving him off me as soon as we're out of the haze.

_Normally_, I wouldn't want to punch his lights out for daring to make me do something so emasculating.

"I _know_," Sam says. I hear the strain in his voice. "Just keep moving."

We're out of the fog, and Sam lets go, and now there are more steps. The hellhound bays behind us, sounding a lot more vicious now than it did a few moments ago. Looks like the terraces of Purgatory affect animals too.

I stumble up the last step. We're slowing, and I can't bring myself to care. I'm tired, and all I really want to do is _relax_. I don't _care _if the damn dog gets me.

"Sloth," Sam says, and he sounds pretty blissed out, too. "We have to keep going, Dean."

"Five minutes," I grumble.

"No, come on." Sam tugs at my arm, but he isn't being very persuasive and his heart isn't really in it. If he'd _really_ wanted me to move, he would've made the eyes, and, Sloth or no Sloth, I would've gone where he wanted me to. (Only because I'm still giving in to the eyes to avoid confusing him. As soon as we're back in our world, Dean Winchester is never falling for the eyes again. _Really._)

"Five _minutes_."

Sam sighs. "Let's look around, at least. The way out is here, so we don't just run on."

The dog's howl is right behind us, _seconds_ away. We look at each other and go a little faster – not too much, because once the hellhound is here, it's going to be slothful too, right?

I see something that looks like a building off to the left. I'm mildly surprised, because we've not seen any buildings in Purgatory so far.

I nudge Sam. "Dude, look."

Sam looks, and he smiles a little. "Library."

I don't know how he knows that – I mean, it's just a big building with huge columns – but libraries are to Sam what strip clubs are to men. He can recognize them a mile off.

I'm about to tell him that when I hear a growl – right behind us, now – and Sam is knocked down by the hellhound.

"_Sam!_"

"No!" Sam gasps, before I can move towards him. "There has to be a book in there. _Get it. _It's the only way out."

Then he screams as the hellhound rips into his arm.

I want to protest. I want to scream, too, because the sight of Sam's blood on the ground makes me feel like I can't breathe. I want to pull the hellhound off him and rip it apart with my _hands_.

But Sam's right – even I, awesome though I am, can't stop a hellhound.

It's almost the hardest thing I've ever done, but I turn away and run into the building Sam claims is a library. (Because, yeah, I can run again. That _thing _is hurting Sam, and _Dante_ isn't going to prevent me from doing whatever I have to do to stop it.)

The library is stacked to bursting, and I don't know what I'm going to do. Even _Sam _wouldn't know where to start looking.

"Ask for a book and you'll be taken to it," a female voice says.

I turn, but I already know who I'm going to see.

Sure enough, Jessica's next to me. She's looking at me with something a lot like disappointment. I feel a flash of anger – that's _my _baby brother, and where exactly does she think she gets off acting like she cares more about Sam than I do?

But I'm too desperate and terrified to maintain the fury. Sam's screams are getting weaker. I don't know where to start looking. I don't know what to _do_.

She shakes her head. "Get him out before it kills him. If he's still alive when you leave, he'll be fine. Eventually."

I want to question that _eventually, _but we don't have time. "What do I read?"

She shrugs. "This is the Hall of Unpublished Manuscripts, Dean. I don't know what you need."

"This is _what_?"

"The terrace of Sloth is for those who don't fulfil their purpose in life. Books that don't get published haven't fulfilled their purpose. They come here."

"Books have _souls_?" I ask sceptically. Even _Sam _wouldn't suggest that.

"A book is a piece of its author's soul. That's enough for it to come here."

Sam's screaming fades out completely. My blood runs cold, but Jessica shakes her head again. "He's alive – barely. You don't have much time."

I don't know what to do.

Sam's the one who knows about this stuff. He probably knows the name of every unpublished manuscript that was ever _written_. And if he were here he'd be going crazy trying to _read _them all. And I don't even know which one he'd want to read the most or anything, so I can't ask for that.

Hell, all I know about unpublished manuscripts is that time Sam and I threatened Chuck if he tried to publish more books about –

_Us._

Suddenly I know what to do.

Sammy's going to be proud of me.

"Chuck," I say aloud. "I need to see Chuck's unpublished _Supernatural _books."

I feel something twist around me. Jessica and I aren't in the middle of the library anymore; we're off to one side, facing a rack of books with tacky covers and really horrible pictures.

All _Supernatural _books.

One title jumps out at me, catching my eye. I pull it out.

_In Libris Libertas._

_In books there is freedom._

This has to be it.

Before the thought's had time to fully form, I'm moving again, running out. Jessica is right beside me.

And the hellhound is standing over Sam, teeth firmly clamped to his shoulder, growling and shaking him like he's a rat. He's covered in blood, limp, barely moving. His eyes are half-open, and they flicker towards me: that's the only sign I have that he's alive.

"I'll distract it," Jessica says. "Get him out." Before I can protest, she adds, "I told you, Dean. I don't belong here. I'll leave as soon as you're gone – it can't hurt me. But I can keep it occupied long enough for you to get Sam _out_." I nod, and she starts to walk towards Sam and the dog. Halfway there, she turns and says, "Do me a favour? When you find the woman who did _that_…" She gestures at Sammy. "Kill her."

I grin. I knew there had to be a reason Sam liked Jessica so much.

She fires a couple of rounds into the dog's shoulder – don't ask me where she got the gun. I didn't see her take it out, but all of a sudden it's _there_. The dog growls, but doesn't move away from Sam. She fires right into its head. It finally pays attention, dropping Sam's shoulder and turning to her.

She backs away, the dog following her. She starts to walk faster, the dog speeds up, and then she runs. It growls and leaps after her.

I lunge for Sam. Hellhounds are smarter than normal dogs; it won't be long before that one realizes it can't hurt her and decides to finish up with Sam.

"Dean?" he mumbles as I pull him up against my shoulder.

"Right here."

"Jess?"

"She'll be fine." I wrap one arm around him. "I promise. Trust me. You just need to stay with me for a few more seconds and then it's all going to be OK."

"_Hurts_."

"I know, kiddo," I soothe. Sam's breathing is laboured, and I don't dare take the time to comfort him. "You'll be fine. C'mon. Let's go home." I flip the book open near the end. "_When the light faded, Dean's hands were bloody and Sam was limp in his arms._"

I hold Sam to me as the world vanishes in blindingly bright light.

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><p>What did you think? Good? Bad? Please review!<p> 


	17. Epilogue

**Author's Note: **Review replies next weekend – I didn't have time for those in between flights, but I _do _just have time to post the epilogue and I thought it was better to just do that than wait until I had time for both. The tags should be back next weekend as well. In the meantime, I hope you like this!

My thanks to Cheryl and SandyDee84, and to everyone who's read/reviewed/bookmarked this fic. You guys are awesome!

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><p><strong>Epilogue<strong>

_When the light faded, Dean's hands were bloody and Sam was limp in his arms._

_For one panicked moment he fumbled frantically at Sam's wrist; then he felt the pulse under his fingers. It was weak, irregular and uneven, but it was there._

_He lowered Sam to the ground, barely taking the time to notice that they were back in their motel room._

_Before Dean could begin checking his little brother for injuries, Sam stirred and moaned. A moment later, he was blinking his eyes open, looking up at Dean with an expression halfway between fear and bewilderment._

"_It's OK," Dean soothed, one hand on Sam's chest to keep him from trying to get up. "Dude, I know you don't like lying on motel room floors, but this one is less gross than usual. Just stay put for a minute, and if you start breathing easier I'll help you up."_

"_I'm –"_

"_Don't even try it."_

"_I'm not hurt, though," Sam said quietly. "Just really tired."_

"_Blood loss? Maybe coming back didn't cure that, and, dude, you pretty much leaked out all the blood in your body back there."_

"_Mmph… Are we back home?"_

"_Let's check." Dean reached into the pocket of the old jeans he was incredibly grateful to find himself wearing and pulled out his cell phone. "Well," he said, flicking through the menus, "even if this isn't our world, it's a world where I have some annoying dude called Sammy as my Speed Dial One."_

"_Jerk," Sam muttered._

"_Bitch," Dean responded affably. "Ready to try sitting up, Sam?"_

"_I was ready hours ago. You were the one who was being stupid about it."_

"_Don't exaggerate. We've only been back for about a minute and a half." Dean slid one arm around Sam's shoulders. "Ready?"_

_Sam nodded. Dean pulled him, gently, into a sitting position. Sam tried to help, but Dean still wound up doing most of the work, and when they finally had him sitting up Sam was breathing hard enough that Dean just sighed and pulled his baby brother against his shoulder._

"_Idiot," he muttered. "Should've told me you weren't ready."_

"_Ready," Sam insisted, although he showed no sign of pushing himself out of Dean's arms. "Just… tired."_

"_Tired means you're not ready, moron." Dean lowered his head over Sam's. "Right, you've made me sit here and cuddle you long enough. Since you've insisted on sitting up like an _idiot_, try to stand and we'll get you to bed."_

"_Sorry," Sam mumbled, flushing and trying to take his own weight._

_Dean sighed again. He should've known better than to joke with Sammy before the kid was one hundred percent._

"_Don't be stupid. Just – damn it, just _stay_, Sam!" Dean glared at Sam until his little brother subsided against his shoulder again. "Good. Now let me do the work and you worry about keeping your balance. You know the drill." _

_It was slow work and Sam was heavy, but it was (fortunately) only a couple of steps to the bed. Dean lowered Sam carefully onto it, sitting him up against the headboard._

"_OK?" Sam nodded, too breathless for words. Dean dropped to the edge of the bed. "Good. I'm going to order dinner – I don't remember eating much in those insane places and my awesomeness needs to be fed. What do you feel like eating?"_

"_I'm not hungry."_

"_I didn't ask if you were hungry. I asked what you felt like eating. You're going to take some fluids because you need to compensate the blood loss, and then you're going to eat something because I'm telling you so. What do you want?"_

"_I want you not to be a jerk."_

"_Tough."_

_Dean pulled out his phone and ordered pizza for himself and soup and salad for Sam. Then he turned back to his little brother._

"_So. That witch."_

"_Yeah," Sam said, smiling grimly. "We should go talk to her."_

"_And by 'talk to' you mean carve the words into her with Ruby's knife, right, Sam?"_

"_Dean!" Sam protested. "She's a person."_

"_She almost got us killed."_

"_But –" _

"_I thought I was going to lose you. Back there in the library? I thought I wouldn't find the book and you would die and it would be my fault. You're not telling me I don't get to kill the person who almost got you killed." Dean smirked. "Besides, I have a promise to keep."_

_Sam scowled and fidgeted. Then he frowned, reaching under the covers._

"_What?" Dean asked, alarmed._

_Sam pulled out a slim paperback book. "I guess this came back with us," he commented, glancing at the title._

"_Dude, no way!" Dean grabbed the book and opened it. "I'm reading about myself sitting here reading about myself sitting here – oh, screw it. And you're about to say –" _

"_It's an interesting paradox for the writer," Sam and Dean chorused. "For Chuck, in this case," Sam added._

"_Shut up and go to sleep. I'll wake you when dinner comes."_

"_Read to me?" Sam asked. _

_Dean hesitated, unsure if Sam was serious or joking, and therefore not knowing whether the proper response would be to sit up against the headboard and let Sam curl up against him or to laugh it off. He settled for saying, "No way. I'm not reading anything until we know the witch's spell is _done_."_

"_Fine." Sam nodded at the book in Dean's hands. "Read that. Worse comes to worst, we'll only wind up here again."_

"_You want me to read to you from Chuck's book? It's going to suck."_

"_The book isn't the point."_

_Dean sighed. How was he _not _supposed to cave when Sam said things like that and followed it up with looking at Dean like he was the one who made the stars shine? It was just unfair that Sam got to pull those stunts._

"_Fine," Dean grumbled. "Scoot over." Sam scooted, and Dean settled down on the bed. Maybe one arm found its way around Sam. That wasn't Dean's fault. It was Sam's fault for being so freaking big and taking up so much space._

_Sam settled his head on Dean's chest, eyes closing as Dean began to read._

I turn over the last page, close the book, and look down. Sam's fast asleep, cheek mashed into my shirt, and he looks so comfortable that I don't have the heart to wake him. I'll have to move when the food gets here anyway. I might as well let him be a little longer.

After all, we have a busy day ahead of us tomorrow. I have a witch to hunt down and a promise to keep.

* * *

><p>THE END<p>

* * *

><p>What did you think? Please review!<p> 


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